


nest

by parsnipit



Series: birds [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Drug Addiction, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Foster Care, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Organized Crime, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-01-25 21:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: Your name is John Egbert, and two of your cagiest troll friends have just fled halfway across the continent to take shelter in your home. You are more than okay with this. You're determined to keep them safe and happy, no matter what you have to do. That's your responsibility as friendleader, right? (Unfortunately, keeping Karkat and Gamzee safe and alive is proving to be far more challenging than it should be.)
Relationships: Gamzee Makara & Karkat Vantas, Gamzee Makara/Karkat Vantas
Series: birds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540093
Comments: 42
Kudos: 110





	1. kids just like us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: violence, injury, mentions of death, manipulation
> 
> chapter track: "home" by phillip phillips

“Karkat, Gamzee! Over here!” You wave at the only two trolls in the Seattle airport, hopping up and down to help draw their attention to you. Karkat’s head snaps around, his ears pricking towards you. Something flashes across his face (fear? relief? hope?) but it’s gone too quickly for you to identify it. He ducks his head and weaves his way through the crowd, Gamzee close on his heels. He stops in front of you, shoulders hunched and eyes down, and _ holy shit _ he’s real your friends are real and they’re really here and you are so _ excited— _ “Hi, guys! Man, I am so excited that you’re here, you have _ no _idea—”

“Shit, man, we’re excited to be here,” Gamzee says, offering you a lazy smile. Something is—off about him, you think. His paint is crinkled in three neat lines across his face, lines that you have _ definitely _never noticed before. “It’s nice to finally get our proper meet on with a brother.”

“Definitely. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you guys _ forever. _Oh—hey, let me introduce you.” You step back, sweeping a hand towards your dad, who waves at the trolls. Gamzee waves back, and Karkat offers him a nervous three-finger-wiggle. “This is my dad, Paul Egbert.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Dad says, tipping his hat like the suave gentleman he is. “You can call me Mr. Egbert. I presume you would be Karkat Vantas, and you would be Gamzee Makara?”

They both nod as your father names them in turn. A look of concern flashes across Dad’s face when he glimpses the mottled bruising on the side of Karkat’s jaw, and anger seethes beneath your ribs. You _ knew _something was wrong with their foster family. God. Shit. How long have they been suffering? Why didn’t they feel like they could come to you sooner?

Well. They’re here now, and you’re going to do whatever you can to help them. That’s what matters. You set your jaw, determined, then open your mouth to speak, but Gamzee beats you to the punch. His eyes widen, and then he thrusts his hand forward in a movement that makes Karkat jump. “Shit—almost forgot, motherfuckers. Here.” 

Your dad grins and shakes Gamzee’s hand, and then you laugh and follow suit. His hands are icy against yours, big and rough, and with patches of thicker, darker skin along his palm and the pads of his fingers. Like pawpads, you think, and that is _ disarmingly _cute on a species bred for war and conquest. (You think the wickedly sharp, bright orange claws make up for it, though.) Karkat grudgingly offers his hand, too, and the contrast between his temperature and Gamzee’s is startling. 

“Our car is parked outside,” Dad says, once your greetings are over. “Do you boys need help getting your luggage?”

Karkat shifts his weight uncomfortably, hooking a thumb beneath the strap of his backpack, and something twists painfully in your stomach. You’ve never seen him look—well, look anything but vaguely interested or grumpy or sometimes (rarely) happy. To see him looking uncertain of himself, to seem him looking vulnerable, hurts your heart. “No, sir,” he says, shaking his head. “We don’t have anything else.”

“Ah.” Your father nods, although his lips press into a thin line for a moment. You know his anger, like yours, isn’t directed at your friends—it’s directed at whatever shitty-ass situation brought them here, injured and uncertain and completely underpacked. “Very well. We’ll go on to the car, then. You boys must be exhausted—was it a long flight?”

“It wasn’t too bad,” Karkat says, following after Dad he heads outside. “Seven hours, I think.”

“Oof. I don’t envy you that. I never was much for planes—and you crossed a couple of times zones too, didn’t you?” Dad asks, his voice light and conversational. “So you gained a little time back. That must be nice.”

“It is,” Karkat agrees, clearly striving to be on his Very Best Behavior and not offend your father. Ow. Ow ow ow thinking about that hurts you more. You wince, then find Gamzee’s eyes on you. You offer him your friendliest smile, and he grins back with—wow, yeah, those are some seriously sharp teeth. You’ve seen them through a screen, of course, but seeing them in real life is significantly more unnerving. 

“Fortunately, we don’t live too far away, so you won’t have to sit in one place much longer,” Dad continues, unlocking the car as you near it. You duck into the front seat, and Karkat and Gamzee clamber into the back, setting their backpacks near their feet. Gamzee keeps his head down, lest he tear the roof of your car with his horns. Once Karkat is settled, he lets out a little exasperated sigh and guides Gamzee’s head to rest on his shoulder. “John’s probably told you—we live in Maple Valley.”

“He’s mentioned it before,” Karkat says. Gamzee seems content to let him do all the talking, which is—odd, you think. Usually Gamzee is the chattier of the two. Maybe he’s just nervous? “It sounds nice.”

“It is—it’s a small, quiet little town, but it’s got a good community and a stellar school system. Perfect for raising kids.” Dad glances in the rearview mirror. “Would the two of you mind buckling up, please?”

Panic flashes through Karkat’s eyes for a moment, his whole body going whiplash-tense as he realizes he doesn’t have A Perfect Response—you twist around in your own seat, gesturing to the seatbelts on either side of them. “You use those belts—pull them over your chest and they click into the little things by your hip. Just like this.” You demonstrate with your own seatbelt, and Karkat scowls his relief at you as the two of them buckle themselves in. 

Your father keeps up a steady stream of conversation as he drives the four of you back home. He keeps his voice steady and calm and does most of the talking himself, telling your friends all about your little town: the weather, the schools, the restaurants. Little nothings that allow Karkat and Gamzee to participate with small answers or simple sounds of acknowledgement. Karkat stays stiff as a board for the entire drive, but Gamzee begins to yawn (_ hnn _so many teeth) against his shoulder, his big ears flicking as he listens to your father talk. 

Once you reach your quaint little suburban house, the four of you step out of the car and onto your driveway. Karkat’s eyes dart all over the place, never pausing for more than a second on any single spot until he’s evidently decided a monster isn’t going to leap out and eat him at the nearest opportunity. His gaze lingers on your tire swing, however, with a look of utter bafflement. 

“That’s a tire swing,” you inform him cheerfully, heading up the driveway. “My dad made it for me when I was a kid. We can check it out sometime, if you want.”

“That sounds bitchtits, bro,” Gamzee pipes up from behind you. You hear Karkat mutter something to him in Alternian (at least you assume it’s Alternian—it’s a language full of rough burrs and clicks that you just don’t think a human is capable of reproducing). Gamzee responds in kind, then adds, in English, “I mean, uh—that sounds really cool. This is a nice hive. House.”

“Thank you,” Dad says, leading the way up the driveway. Karkat moves after him, Gamzee following, always a single step behind. You bring up the rear, your chest buzzing with excitement. You really, really want them to like it here. “I’m glad you think so. Now, we don’t have a guest bedroom, but we can certainly set up a place for you boys to sleep for a few days.”

You gasp as a sudden revelation occurs to you and Karkat’s head jerks around, the little bristly black hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing up. His head-hair even looks a little fluffier. That is _ freaking _adorable, although you feel kind of bad, because you think it’s a defensive response. “Sorry, Karkat—I just thought of something. You guys are nocturnal, right?”

Judging by the sleepy look in Gamzee’s eyes, you already have your answer, but Karkat hesitates anyway. “We—generally, yeah. But we can be whatever you guys need us to be. If it’s more convenient for us to stay up during the day and sleep at night, we can do that.”

“No, no, it’s totally fine,” you say, shaking your head. “You guys don’t need to do that. I’ll be at school most of the day, anyway, and Dad’ll be at work. We can hang out in the evenings. So I guess you’re ready for bed now, then?”

Karkat’s mouth twists, and then he nods. “If it’s alright with you, yeah.”

“Let’s get you set up, then,” Dad says, unlocking the front door and ushering you all inside. Karkat steps cautiously, ears swiveling and eyes scanning. Behind you, you can hear Gamzee snuffling in deep breaths—he reminds you of Terezi, when he does that. “John, can you go fetch some spare blankets from my closet? I don’t suppose you boys brought any bedding?”

“We brought a blanket, and couple of pillows,” Karkat says, studying the toes of his sneakers. They’re dark gray, but there are splotches of brighter colors near the soles—paint? You glance over at Gamzee’s and notice his have the same bright splotches. “But—nothing else. I’m sorry.”

You trot up the stairs before you can hear Dad’s response, ducking into his room. You grab a thick brown blanket from the closet, along with a smaller afghan, before racing back to the living room. A gray blanket has been tossed onto the couch with a pair of pillows—one of which is shaped like a crab, you notice, grinning. 

“—and the bathroom is upstairs on the left,” your dad explains, gesturing to the stairs behind the couch. “Feel free to help yourselves to any of the food in the fridge or cabinets, and you’re free to explore or watch TV if you get bored. There are some books in the study—that doorway just there—and some video games in John’s room. John, my boy, would you mind at all if the boys played a few of your games, provided they wake up before we return?”

“No, that’s totally fine,” you say, spreading the blankets out on top of the gray blanket. “You guys can do whatever you want. I can show you some _ awesome _games tonight, too. Or we could watch movies—you like romcoms, right, Karkat?”

Karkat nods stiffly. “Yeah. That sounds—fun.”

He doesn’t _ sound _like that sounds fun, but you try not to let that disappoint you. He’s exhausted and hurt and nervous, and you have to remind yourself not to push too hard. 

“Well, in that case, if you boys are all set,” your dad says, adjusting his tie, “I’m afraid John and I need to be going. He’ll have school until three this afternoon, and I’ll be at work until five. You have John’s number if you need anything at all, and my number is written on a sticky-note on the fridge, along with any emergency numbers you may need. Is there anything else you need before we go?”

Karkat glances at Gamzee, who blinks slowly at him, and then turns back to the both of you and shakes his head. “No, sir. Thank you—for everything. For letting us stay here.”

“You’re more than welcome. The two of you make yourselves at home.” Dad walks past Karkat, setting a careful hand on his shoulder for a brief second—Karkat stiffens, and Gamzee’s fingers twitch at his sides, but neither of them says anything. _ God, _ you want to stay here and talk to them—to find out what happened, why they’re hurt, why they’re scared and miserable and _ here, _but your dad is already striding out of the door.

“I’ll talk to you guys later tonight, okay?” you tell them, reluctantly moving after Dad. “It really _ is _super nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Karkat says, and for a second, with your dad gone, he relaxes and you see a flash of the crabby little jerk you adore so much. “You too, asswipe. See you.”

“Later, little motherfucker,” Gamzee says, waving at you. 

You beam at them both before racing after Dad, pulling the door shut behind you and jogging down the driveway. “Do I _have _to go to school today?” you whine, and he chuckles and reaches out to ruffle your hair. “My cagey alien friends are here for, like, the first time _ever.”_

“That’s right,” Dad agrees, amused, as he ushers you into the car again. “But right now your cagey alien friends aren’t going to be doing anything but sleeping, and I’m afraid you can’t keep them much company while they’re doing that. Besides, they both look like they need some time to decompress.” He frowns slightly as he slides into his own seat. “We’ll need to talk about what happened to them, John. This isn’t just a friendly visit.”

You sigh softly, slumping down in your seat as he pulls onto the road. The hum of soft jazz surrounds you. “I know.”

Dad is quiet for a moment, before asking, “Those marks on Gamzee’s face—they looked like wounds. It’s hard to tell behind all the paint, but I doubt they were even scabbed over. A human wouldn’t make marks like that.”

You hold your hands in front of the car’s heater, warding off the late winter chill and trying not to think about what that means.

“What was their foster family like? Have they told you anything about them?”

“Not a lot,” you admit. “Not—anything, honestly, except that they have one.”

“So I suppose you don’t know whether there were any other children in the family?”

You shake your head.

“Well, something to ask them, I suppose.” Your father drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “And they haven’t told you anything about what happened to make them come here?”

You shake your head again. “No. And I didn’t want to ask and—scare them, I guess.”

“That’s very considerate of you—and probably a wise choice, too.” Your father parks outside of the school, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “We’ll see if we can’t talk to them tonight, okay? But try not to worry too much. They’re safe now. _ You _focus on having an awesome day at school.”

“Blegh—there’s no such thing as awesome on a school day.” You make a face, slipping out of the car and slinging your backpack over your shoulders. “Thanks, though—I hope you have an awesome day, too!”

You wave at him as you jog up the sidewalk, eager to talk with Rose and Terezi before classes start. You have so _ much _to tell them. Unfortunately, your little trip to Seattle has left you running late, so you don’t see either one of them before your first hour. You daydream your way through American History, your leg bouncing with an overabundance of energy, and you leap from your seat as soon as the bell rings. 

You have your second hour with Terezi, but your teacher is A Butt and shoots you both a glare when you try to whisper your _ super exciting news _ to her. You’re forced to wait until the bell rings to tell her, and you _ might _ talk a little too fast as the two of you head for your lockers because you’re Excited, damn it. “—so Karkat trolled me super late last night asking if they could come stay and so obviously I said yes and then they got on a plane from Tontorak and came here and me and Dad picked them up this morning and brought them home and they’re there right now and I’m so excited you have _ no idea—” _

“No, I _ definitely _have some idea,” Terezi says, looking wryly at you. “Would you mind saving this story for lunch, when you can tell it at a rate that is somewhat more bearable?”

You whine but concede, because at least during lunch you can tell _ both _ of your friends at the same time. The next couple of hours are excruciating, and you zone out during of most of your classes. When lunch _ finally _ rolls around, you slap your tray down at your group’s favorite table, grinning. “Hi, Rose. Hi, Terezi. Are you ready for some _ awesome _news?” 

“Hello, John,” Rose greets you, smiling fondly in your direction as she opens her carton of strawberry milk. “I’d love to hear it.”

“I heard snatches before, and I don’t think I like what I’m hearing, but please repeat,” Terezi agrees, sniffing warily at her food before shoveling a spoonful of corn into her mouth. 

“So you guys know Karkat and Gamzee, right? From New York?”

“You’ve mentioned them before, yes,” Rose says.

“Well, last night Karkat trolled me and asked if he and Gamzee could come visit, and I said yeah, of course—but I knew something had to be wrong, because they wouldn’t just _ ask _ for something like that, not after they’d been so determined to never visit me _ ever.” _You inhale a bite of pizza before continuing, “So the two of them flew into Seattle, and my dad and I went and picked them up this morning, and—”

“Woah, woah, woah, hang on,” Terezi says, pinning her ears and leaning forward. “You’re telling me you invited two strange trolls into your _ house? _ On a _ whim? _ Just because you thought _ maybe _something was wrong?”

“Well—” You squint, thinking about it. “Yes? But listen, I _ know _Karkat and Gamzee. I’ve been friends with them for years. They wouldn’t do anything to hurt us.”

“They’re trolls,” Terezi argues, stabbing a slimy-looking peach with her fork. “They’re genetically predisposed to want to hurt you.”

“Genetic predisposition and _ actual _disposition are often entirely different things,” Rose says, frowning slightly. “Just look at you, Terezi. You’re a troll, but you’d never do anything to hurt John or me.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I certainly wouldn’t do it on _ purpose, _but trolls are—” Terezi grimaces. “Blegh. Just—watch your back, John. I don’t want to have to murder someone because they hurt you. I’ve got a clean track record so far, and I’d like to keep it that way for at least a few more sweeps.”

“No, no, no way, no murdering is going to be necessary whatsoever,” you say, your eyes widening. “Nobody’s hurting _ anybody. _Wow. This conversation is not going the way I anticipated. I thought you would be excited—you get to meet more trolls. Isn’t that cool?”

Terezi rolls her eyes. “Considering trolls are nonsocial, hyper-aggressive, territorial freaks—no. Not really. I left Alternia for a reason. But—they’re your friends, so maybe they’re actually okay.” She flashes you a wicked grin. “You _ do _have pretty good taste in friends, after all.”

“That I do,” you agree, reaching over to boop her pointy nose. “They’re really nice, I promise. I think you’ll like them.”

“Maybe.” She drops a cherry into her mouth, humming thoughtfully. “Anyway, Rose, what do you think? Should the accused have opened his home to two relative strangers of a distinctly hostile and aggressive alien species?”

“Well, when you phrase it that way, it does sound a tad bit irresponsible,” Rose says, looking apologetically at you. “But perhaps that’s only a wording effect. I admire your compassion, John, and your willingness to help others. I only hope that you’re keeping yourself safe, too.”

“I am, I am. Come on, it’s not like they’re wild animals. They’re _ people. _ They’re _ kids, _just like us. You’ll understand once you meet them.”

“And when, exactly, are we going to meet them? How long are they planning on staying?” Terezi asks, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms across her chest.

“Just a few days, and—well, they probably won’t be up for visitors today or tomorrow. I guess you can meet them right before they leave,” you say, although you’re frowning. You hate to think about them leaving so soon. You hate to think about them going back to whatever shitty family they came from.

“Pardon me if this is too intrusive,” Rose says, tapping a finger against her chin, “but you mentioned that you knew it was an emergency when he trolled you. Did you ever find out what _ kind _of emergency?”

“Oh.” You wince slightly, and Rose sets a hand on your shoulder. “That. They didn’t tell us anything for certain—my dad says we have to have A Talk tonight—but I’ve got a general idea.”

“Oooh—what is it? Spill the gossip, kid,” Terezi says, leaning forward eagerly. “The court will hear your statement now.”

“I don’t know that I should say,” you admit, although it makes you feel bad to withhold information from your friends. “It would feel like going behind their backs. I just—it had something to do with their foster family. That’s all I know.”

“Ah.” Rose grimaces, sitting back and smoothing her hands over her skirt. “That’s unfortunate.”

You nod, taking a deep breath as your anger bubbles up in your chest again. It’s fine. They’re fine. They’re fine and you’re never, ever going to let them be hurt that way again. 

“My mother is trying to become licensed as a foster parent,” Rose says, suddenly.

“Woah, really?” Terezi’s ears prick, and you think you see a wistful sort of hope flash across her face. “What for?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s for a lot of reasons, honestly,” Rose admits, poking at a half-eaten slice of peach. “I think she wants to prove to herself that she’s improved, that she’s—better. That even the _ government _agrees she’s capable of being a good mother now. I think she always wanted more kids, anyway, and after the divorce she never got the chance.”

“Are you...happy?” you ask, leaning towards her and squinting at her face—but she’s as unflappably cool as ever and simply offers you a little smile, reaching out to smooth your bangs away from your eyes.

“I think I’ll be happy if it makes her happy. Besides—” She glances at Terezi, nudging her gently with her shoulder. “I already know a pretty good kid who could use a foster mom.”

“Wait—wait _ seriously?” _Terezi’s eyes widen, her claws digging into the table. “She agreed to—?”

“No, no, not yet. But I _ have _been talking to her about it. Of course, it also depends on what the court decides for you, too. If you go to another family before then—”

“Then they’ll send me back to the group home, like they always do,” Terezi says, shrugging. And then she grins, and you’re reminded of a looming shark. “I’ll make _ sure _they do, this time. But I could be good. For your mom, I mean. I could be good.”

“Oh, Terezi.” Rose’s face creases in sympathy, and your own heart aches for her. Trolls are always so _ sad, _ no matter what they do. “You _ are _good. You—” The bell rings, sharp and irritating and cutting off whatever Rose was going to say. Instead of continuing, she rests a hand between Terezi’s horns and says, “We’ll talk later, okay? Now come on. I don’t want to be late to chemistry again.”

You grumble but pick up your tray and your backpack, falling into step with them as you head for the trashcans. The three of you part ways once you’ve dropped your trays off, and though you are physically present in each of your afternoon classes, your mind is far, far away. It’s back home, tucked up on the couch next to your buddies as you heroically figure out a way to save them from their miserable situation and oh also watch some_ epic _movies while eating popcorn (and jerky, because you think your dad still thinks troll are carnivores; you really should correct him, soon).

* * *

“Listen, Captor.” Nuodel prowls around you in a tight circle, her fangs gleaming in the low light of the inquisition room. “I don’t need you to tell me how they escaped. I don’t need you to tell me where they went. I already know that shit, motherfucker. What I want from you is the _ why. _ Why they’d go? More importantly, why’d they go to _ Washington, _of all places? What’s there for them?”

You grind your teeth, taste your blood. You’d betrayed KK’s trust to this bitch once already; you aren’t about to _ fucking do it again. _ Unless she threatens AA, and then you—then you’ll have to, but you can’t expect him to forgive you again. You can’t ask that of him. Fuck. _ Fuck this shit. _ “Fuck you,” you spit at her, baring your teeth. “I don’t know why they went to _ Washington. _ I didn’t even _ know _they went there. Despite what you may believe, Karkat doesn’t tell me every single dumbass thought that goes on in his thick fucking skull.”

“Aw—well, of course he wouldn’t. Who would?” She grips your chin, her claws digging into your skin. There’s a deep, striking purple bruise across the side of her face. Her eye is nearly swollen shut. You feel a visceral sort of satisfaction about that. “You’ve just a sniveling little traitor, after all. You already betrayed him once.”

“Like I needed the reminder,” you say, your voice dry. 

“Listen, kid.” Noir steps forward, taking a slow drag off of his cigarette before breathing the smoke out. It curls around his face in thick gray clouds. “We’re _ going _to get Vantas and Makara back. There’s no question about that. We know where they are. All that’s left is to send somebody to fetch them, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not be sending my people into a trap.”

“We could send him,” Nuodel says, a sadistic sort of glee in her eyes. “They wouldn’t hurt him, would they, Captor? Not one of their little _ friends.” _

“No,” Noir says, before you can work yourself up into a panic about _ that. _“We can’t trust him. He’s clever, this one.”

“What about the other two? Zahhak, and what’s her name—Leijon.”

Noir snorts. “What, after Makara tried to kill them? They’d bring a couple of corpses back to us, and not a thing else. No. We’ll send an adult or two. That should be enough, provided we know what we’re sending them into.” He crouches in front of you, studying your face. Your power aches around your hornbeds, your eyes, held back by the pressure of the psi inhibitors wrapped around your horns. 

“So tell me, Captor,” Noir continues, his voice smooth. “What are my people going to be walking into? What’s in Washington? Another gang? A group of orphan wigglers? A police station?”

“I told you,” you spit, clenching your teeth. “I _ don’t know.” _

And you don’t—not really, not for sure. You have an idea, but that’s all it is. (That’s all you can hope for.)

“Ah, well. Never let it be said we didn’t try this the easy way first, hm?” Noir asks, and then he presses the lit end of his cigarette to your temple and you’re shrieking, your power boiling beneath your skin as you try to toss your head away from him. Nuodel braces her hands against you, though, holds you still as the flame licks and sears your skin and laughs. 

Once the flame burns itself out, Noir flicks the cigarette away and sighs. He slips his hand into your pocket, fishing out your phone and waving it in front of you. You shake your head, an unconscious growl rolling in your chest. _ Fuck, _that hurt. “I’m disappointed, Captor. In fact, the only reason I’m keeping you alive is because you happen to be the only troll I know capable of hacking an imperial spaceship and remaining undetected. But your lack of loyalty—tsk, tsk. That needs fixing. Nuodel?”

“Hm?” 

“Bring me this bastard’s palemate, would you? Aradia Megido, Union Medical Center, room 512.”

“What? No, _ no—!” _

“Hush,” Noir says, smoothing a hand through your hair. “You made your choices, Captor. You can’t say I haven’t given you enough chances.”

“Fuck, please, _ please _ I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt Aradia, don’t bring her here, she’ll _ die. _ She needs to be at the hospital, needs to be where they can take care of her, _ she will die _if you take her away—”

Noir offers you your phone. “If you don’t know why our boys are in Washington, I’m sure you can find out.”

And you—oh, you, traitor that you are—take your phone with trembling fingers, and you send a single message to KK. You can’t do much, not when Noir will see your messages, but you _ try— _fuck, you try to say what you need to without saying it. You can only hope KK trusts you enough to listen. (You wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.)

“Atta boy.” Noir ruffles your hair, taking your phone back from you and slipping it into his own pocket. “Now, then—Nuodel? You’d best get going. The hospital will be having visiting hours soon, and you don’t want to get caught in the crowd.”

Oh.

He lied to you.

Of course he did.

That’s not the thing that makes you scream, though. Oh, you shriek and snarl and growl, but you do not _ scream. _ You do not scream when they release you from your bonds and leave you locked alone in the inquisition room, shaking with rage (with fear). You do not scream when you think about them tearing Aradia away from her room, her medical equipment, her life. You do not scream when you imagine what Karkat will think when he discovers your betrayal (for nothing, for _ nothing). _

No. 

The thing that makes you scream is when, a few hours after Noir and Nuodel leave you, you begin to hear Aradia’s voice. She’s not here, not with you, not really. At least not in this room, not where you should be able to hear her. So that means one thing, and that one thing? That’s what makes you scream: the knowledge that you can hear Aradia’s voice right alongside the voices of the deceased, ever-constant, in the back of your skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! we're back at it again, lads!!! updates in this fic will proooobably not be as quick as they were for migration bc my creative energy Hibernates in the winter, apparently u.u that aside, i hope you enjoy the next leg of our little adventure! :D


	2. bluebirds (like the stupid floating fish)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter track: “out of the woods” cover by for king and country
> 
> warnings: blood, injury, references to violence/murder

“—ow, ow ow ow, ow, ow ow—” 

“I get it, you giant grub, it fucking  _ hurts,  _ but there’s nothing I can do about that. God, did you have to pack it in so deeply? You’re—yep, there you go. Bleeding again, go figure.”

“Ooooooow.”

_ “Shh,  _ I know. Almost done. I just have to clean out this last one.”

_ “Ooooooooooooooow.” _

“Okay, okay, there we go.” You step back with a heavy sigh, sticking the washcloth under the sink to wash the paint and blood from it. Gamzee watches you like a kicked barkbeast, his shoulders hunched and his lower lip wobbling. Blood trickles down his face in slow purple rivulets. A sympathetic croon shivers up in your chest, but you bite it back. “We need to keep the paint away from your cuts until they heal.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said, shut up.” You run lukewarm water over the washcloth once it’s clean, moving back to clean the edges of his cuts more gently. He winces under your touch, but you cup his jaw in your hand and scritch softly behind his ear. “Fuck. They’re going to get infected if you keep packing paint in them, but I just don’t have a feasible fucking explanation for how you got them, and you  _ know  _ they’re going to ask.”

“Mm.”

You set the washcloth aside, rummaging through the Egberts’ cabinets until you find a bottle of antibiotic ointment. Gamzee winkles his nose but lets you smear the salve across his cuts. “There’s no way we can tell them the truth.”

“Why not?”

You arch your eyebrows at him before deciding no—no, he really is that dense. “Because they’d kick us out, and we don’t have anywhere to  _ go  _ yet. We’re lucky enough the lusus decided to let us stay here in the first place. He certainly won’t want us around John if he knows you—” You wave a hand at him. “You know. Tried to  _ fucking strangle _ one of our other friends.”

Gamzee shudders out a little sigh, hunching further into himself. “Yeah. I guess that’s the motherfuckin’ truth of the matter.” He pauses, then adds, “We don’t have any right to stay here, brother.”

“No,” you agree. “We don’t—but we’re going to, at least until they kick us out or we can find somewhere else to go. Look, read this.” You hand him your phone, where you have painstakingly researched ‘how to be a good human hiveguest.’ 

As Gamzee reads, you decaptchalogue a packet of sopor concentrate and set about mixing a bowlful of it. He eats it with gusto, his shoulders relaxing as he does, and you finally feel safe enough to leave him alone in the ablutions block for more than five seconds—so you do. You trot out of the block and set about exploring your new territory, because like  _ hell  _ are you going to sleep in this strange place when you’re still keyed up from—fuck, from everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.

You poke your nose into the block across from the ablutions’ block, first. It smells like cologne and tobacco—the lusus. The block looks safe enough, you suppose. There are no obvious traps or weapons of mass destruction. There is, however, a closet which contains a copious amount of ironed shirts and slacks, as well as a shelf with several blankets. His drawer contain socks and briefs—and ties, lots and lots of ties. His bed is empty and neatly-made, and it smells like him and no other.

After you’ve scouted out that block, you slip around the corner and through the next door. This room you recognize, by sight and by scent. There’s a bed along the far wall, a desk in one corner and a chest in the other. Soft, pale Earth sunlight streams in through the window, casting patches on the floor. Posters for shitty human movies cover the walls, and the whole place smells just like John does. Humans, you’ve come to realize, don’t have a self-scent—but they  _ do  _ collect the scents of the things they’re around, and John? John smells like vanilla cake, fresh air, and weird human cologne (milder than his lusus’, less spicy, but still just as pungent). 

Once you’ve finished poking around in your friend’s block, you jog back downstairs to explore the study. Gamzee joins you, and together, the two of you poke through shelves of books and desk drawers full of miscellaneous garbage. “Be careful not to move anything,” you warn Gamzee as he places his claws tentatively on a shelf, trying to balance himself so he can peek higher up.

“I’m careful, I’m careful,” he murmurs, cocking his head to the side and squinting up at one of the books. “Shit. Looks like a cookbook or twelve, bro. You think he knows how to make pies?”

“If he does, I’m sure they’re better—and less mentally debilitating—than yours.”

“Shit, probably.”

There’s a strange, blocky  _ thing  _ in the far corner, and it catches your attention as Gamzee scours the books. You sniff at it—old wood, with the salty stink of humans clinging to it, just like it clings to everything else in this hive. Most of the wood is glossy and golden-brown, but there’s a slash of black and white blocks running down the front. You run the pads of your fingers over the blocks and discover that they’re loose. Pressing down on one elicits a loud, clear chime of noise that makes you jump. 

“Woah.” You glance back over your shoulder, and Gamzee is watching you with wide eyes. “The hell is that?”

“I have,” you say, jabbing the small block of wood again and flicking your ears as it chimes back at you, “literally no idea.”

Gamzee pads over to stand beside you, snuffling curiously at the blocks. Then he places a finger on one, presses down, and chirps happily when it chimes. “Motherfucking  _ wicked,  _ bro.”

You wave his hand away, moving out of the study. “Yeah, yeah, it’s cool, if you want to make a shit-ton of noise. Come on. Let’s check out the kitchen.”

“Oh, fuck yeah, man. I am  _ starving.” _

The two of you push through the odd half-door in front of the kitchen, and Gamzee rummages through the cabinets while you raid the fridge. There’s plenty to eat—John’s lusus is a good provider, if nothing else. You’re careful not to take too much, and you feel nervous about taking anything at all, if you’re honest. Your position here is already precarious, and you want to keep yourself on the lusus’ good side.

You settle for turkey sandwiches, and you and Gamzee each inhale one before guzzling down several glasses of water. You scout out the final room—which has a washer and dryer, along with a drawer full of towels and sheets and cleaning supplies, and a glass door leading to the yard. Once you’ve scoured the whole hive and determined it to be an acceptable (if temporary) territory, you and Gamzee both flop back onto the couch.

“Mind if I take a look at those wounds of yours, little brother?” Gamzee asks gently, and a little frisson runs up your back at the thought. You want him to. You want him to take care of you, too soothe you, to make this whole stupid  _ mess  _ feel better, but at the same time, you—

You really don’t deserve that, do you? “I don’t—”

“Best friend.” Gamzee hunches his shoulders, stares at his hands. “Please. Please, I want—I  _ need  _ to do something good, and taking care at you is one of the best things a fucker’ll ever have the chance to do.”

Well. You can’t deny him  _ that,  _ can you? You let out a soft breath, tugging your shirt over your head. The wounds from your failed shoosh-slaughter with Finrel have long since faded into ragged, silvery scars, but the thin cuts on your good shoulder are fresh, and they sting as you move. Gamzee croons his sympathy at you, guiding you to curl up in his lap, your forehead pressed to his shoulder.

You drift, as he cleans your wounds with steady rasps of his tongue. For the briefest of moments, with your moirail surrounding you—a wall of cool gray skin and careful touches—you almost feel safe. Gamzee tips your chin up and nuzzles at the bruise on your jaw, clicking unhappily until you brush your fingers across his cheek. He quiets, lapping softly at the split near the center of the bruise, and you?

You are so, so  _ stupidly  _ in love with this fucker. You know he’s dangerous. You know he has the potential to be absolutely, completely  _ terrible.  _ You know maybe, on some level, he already is. He’s got fucking  _ awful  _ rage issues, an entire lack of self-control or the notion thereof, an addictive personality, and a suppressed sort of arrogance you loathe. But you  _ also  _ know this: he’s so, so gentle with you. He cherishes your friends more than anything. He loves talking and painting and having stupid rap-offs. He laughs at the  _ shittiest  _ jokes and bawls if he sees a sad commercial on TV. He’s endearingly (well, most of the time) stubborn, and you know there isn’t a thing in this universe he wouldn’t do if you asked him to.

You know that, no matter what, he’s your serendipity. Your palemate, your love, the other half of your diamond. He’s your best friend, and you don’t think you could ever stop loving him.

“I love you,” you mumble at him, bracing your hand against his cheek. The cuts are startlingly bright against the dull gray of his skin, and you’re suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to clean them the way he’s cleaned yours.  _ He’s  _ yours, and so are his wounds. Unfortunately, you’ve already covered them in a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, and you’re not  _ about  _ to get that shit in your mouth. You settle for lapping at his temple, instead—just close enough to soothe your pale instincts. He chirrups happily at you, resting his hands against your chest.

“I love you too,” he murmurs. “So much. So so much, Karkat.” He pauses, then adds, his voice softer, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“What are we gonna do? Where are we gonna go?”

“We’ll figure something out.” You cradle the back of his head, hold it protectively against your shoulder. “We’ll go somewhere they can never find us and we’ll make a home there.”

“Like the floating fish?”

You laugh—it comes out watery than you insteaded it to. Your eyes sting. “Yeah, Gam. Like the stupid floating fish.” You press your lips to his hair, smooth your hand down the back of his neck. “We’ll go somewhere far, far away and we’ll build a great big hive for the both of us. We’ll live there together, just you and me.”

“And our clade?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” You reach for Gamzee’s locket, smoothing your thumb over the front of it. “Us and our clade. And we’ll have tons of land to hunt on, and we’ll never, ever be hungry or scared or alone. We’ll have a lusus—”

“A big one. The biggest one, one what can scare all the others away.”

“The biggest one,” you agree, rubbing gently between his grubscars. “Fuck, let’s have two—or five. One for everybody in the clade.”

“Shit, you think we need that many?”

“I think we can have as many as we want.”

Gamzee hums softly, happily. “And they’ll always be around?”

“Always. And they’ll let us do whatever we want. We can cuddle all day, or go hiking, or hunt for weeks at a time. Nobody’ll ever hurt us or tell us what to do ever again. Nobody’ll ever take you from me.”

“Nobody,” Gamzee agrees, squeezing you. You reach up, petting your fingers softly across his temple, the bridge of his nose, just above the deep slash that splits it. “You wanna get our rest on before John gets back, brother?”

You are—absolutely exhausted, but you don’t think you could sleep if you tried. Besides, you don’t have a ‘coon, and you are  _ not  _ going to be ingesting your sopor, thanks. “No. You should, though. I’ll keep a watch.” Gamzee frowns, opening his mouth to protest, but you pap your fingers against his lips. “Shh. I’ll sleep tomorrow and  _ you  _ can keep watch.”

“Why can’t we both sleep?”

“Because one of us needs to be awake when John gets back. Listen, I trust the guy but—” You squirm uncomfortably. It’s hard to connect  _ your  _ John, blue letters on a screen, to the real, living, breathing person John. “I don’t know. I’d just rather have one of us awake and ready to—” To fight. To run. To kill. But fucking  _ hell,  _ you don’t want to hurt John. You have no  _ reason  _ to hurt John, except for your dumbass paranoia. “I mean. I don’t think we’ll have to, but I just—I just—”

“Nah, I get it, little brother.” Gamzee kisses your forehead, rocking you slowly. “I get it. Let’s have it your way, then. I’ll take a snooze today, and we’ll switch tomorrow.”

Gamzee sprawls out on top of the big gray blanket, cuddling your stuffed crab to his chest. You drape the extra blankets over his shoulders, crouch next to the couch and brush your fingers through his hair. Pet him soft and gentle—rub circles into his temples, the back of his neck, his shoulders—until his eyes drift shut and his breathing slows. 

Once he’s asleep, you stand up and crack your back. Hm. Now what? You’re all alone in a strange hive, with access to all kinds of food and entertainment, and you? Well. You do what feels natural. You curl up, settling Gamzee’s feet in your lap, and troll your friends.

Sollux had sent you a  _ shit-ton  _ of messages last night, demanding to know where you were and if you were alright. The messages had stopped abruptly a few hours after you left, however, save for one final message only an hour ago.

TA: hey kk? you went to wa2hiington, riight? also btw iif you haven’t notiiced ii’m really pii22ed at you for leaviing wiithout 2ayiing goodbye. nepeta and equiiu2 are pii22sed two, and they 2hould be, but ii gue22 ii’m gonna let that 2liide startiing now. but they both know about where you you two went wrong. you 2hould tell them you’re 2orry, although ii know that’ll 2hatter what liitle 2elf-esteem you have. forget that 2hiit, though. what you 2hould be 2orry for ii2 leaviing me. what the hell ii2 iin wa2hiington that’2 2o great you can abandon your friiend2 for iit? 

You frown, rubbing your thumb across your phone’s case. That—doesn’t sound right. Or make sense, actually. Although, to be fair, Sollux rarely makes sense to you. But why the fuck would he tell you he was going to let your abandonment of him slide and  _ then  _ proceed to tell you how fucking sorry you should be for it? Sure, the guy changes his moods and his mind like it’s going the fuck out of style, but he usually doesn’t do it in the same paragraph. It’s more of a monthly process, and—

And you’re probably overthinking this. You chew your lip, preparing to tap out a salty (but aggressively apologetic, because you feel like shit) message, when you hear the crunch of tires on gravel outside. You tense, pinning your ears. Cautiously, so you don’t wake your palemate, you slip off of the couch and prowl towards the front door. 

Through the window, you see a strange white, boxy vehicle parked at the end of the driveway. A little human dressed in blue steps out of it, and you shrink away from the door, bristling. You prepare to decaptchalogue your sickle, the air around you thickening with the fizzy, metallic smell of your sylladex. But the human just—fiddles with something near the end of the driveway, sliding a handful of white papers into it before climbing back into the vehicle and pulling away.

What the  _ fuck? _

You pace in front of the door for a while, torn between going out and seeing what those white papers were and staying  _ riiight  _ here until John gets home. Eventually, however, your curiosity overcomes you (curiosity killed the Kar _ kat— _ ha! Nepeta would like that one, but thinking about her makes you too sad). You unlock the door and pad down the driveway, glancing carefully in every direction.

The street is empty, save for a few parked cars, and quiet. Most of the houses look the same—trim, square little things with bright green yards and white picket fences. You edge your way out to the street, fiddling with the strange little box the human slid the papers into. It opens easily, and you nervously tug out the papers and the tense, waiting for Something Bad to happen. When nothing does, you look the papers over, frowning.

Most of them, it turns out, are envelopes that you dare not open. They have letters written on them—what looks like Paul Egbert’s name, and maybe two addresses. Huh. That’s less interesting than you thought it would be. You slide the envelopes back into their little blue box, shutting it and heading back up the driveway. 

You’re almost to the porch when a flash of movement catches your eye and you jump. An odd, bright blue bird flaps across the sky, landing in the tree that holds John’s nonsensical  _ tire swing.  _ There’s a nest, and the bird hops it way over to it. You squint, but you’re not high enough to see what’s inside the nest—and your eyes smart in the sunshine, anyway. You should really go back inside. You should really  _ not  _ climb that tree just to see inside of the nest.

Whelp.  _ Should  _ is a very tricky word, and somehow you find yourself climbing up the tree just to see inside of the nest. The bird shrieks unhappily at you, so you stay a few branches away, just close enough to peek into the thatch of feathers and branches. Inside, there are three tiny, speckled blue eggs. Somehow, you knew there would be. 

A little half-smile actually tugs at your face, seeing them—and then a barkbeast begins to yelp somewhere below you, and you hiss and scramble back into the house as quickly as you can. You nearly slam the door shut behind you before you remember  _ oh yeah, traumatized moirail sleeping in the next block  _ and shut it more quietly. Then you kind of just—pace around, because if you sit still for too long you know you’re going to get sleepy and you don’t want that.

You don’t answer Sollux, though. For whatever reason (your own guilt, your fear, your nagging suspicion that  _ that’s not right,  _ your reluctance to hear what your friend has to say about Gamzee) you just—don’t. Nepeta and Equius haven’t messaged you, either, and though you yearn to check in on them, to make sure they’re okay, you know they’re not. They’re not, and it’s your palemate’s fault, and by proxy it’s  _ your  _ fault. You didn’t stop him. You weren’t enough, you were scared and you were  _ weak. _

You wake Gamzee up a half-hour before John is supposed to get home, and he blinks groggily at you as you wash the cuts on his face off again. Once they’re clear of antibiotic ointment, you rasp your tongue across the deepest parts of them—the bridge of his nose, the arch of his cheek. You’re grateful that Nepeta seems to have avoided fucking up his eyes  _ too  _ badly, although he’s got a slash through one eyebrow and his right eye is bloodshot and watery. It seems to have gotten worse as he slept.

“Does your eye hurt?” you ask, rubbing the pad of your thumb gently beneath his eye. He winces, and that’s answer enough. You rest your hand over his left eye, leaving only the wounded one open. “Can you see out of it?”

Gamzee squints, then widens his eye, then squints again, and something cold settles into the pit of your stomach. “Uuuh—kinda? I can see your shape, brother, the way you move, but it’s all kinds of dull and fuzzy-like.”

“Okay.” You let out a soft breath, leaning your forehead against his. “Maybe it just needs to heal. Let’s give it a few days and see if it gets better.”

“And if it doesn’t, pupation’ll fix it,” Gamzee offers, and you—

Well, fuck. You make the most helpless, torn-up, stupid fucking sound. You  _ hate  _ that. You hate that he has to wait for pupation to fix all the things you  _ couldn’t.  _ You hate that you can’t take care of him like you should. You hate that he’s hurt in so many different ways and you can’t help him. You hate it you hate it you hate it  _ you hate it—! _

“Hey, hey, woah, now, easy—” Gamzee reaches forward, draws you towards him and sways slowly in place. “Easy, little brother, shh-shh-shh.”

You bare your teeth at the empty air and you  _ hurt  _ for all your inadequacies. You should have left him back on Alternia. He would’ve been better off there. He wouldn’t be half-blind and always coughing and stuck with a limp because you threw him off on someone else when he was  _ your responsibility.  _ But. You’ve moped about that enough, haven’t you?

You grit your teeth and take a deep breath, resting your forehead against his chest. “Sorry. Fuck, sorry, it’s okay. I just—hate that you’re hurt.”

“Nothing as won’t fix, brother,” he assures you in that gentle, mellow tone you love so well. “All’s well, I promise.”

You nod slowly, pulling back and brushing your palm against his cheek. “Yeah,” you murmur. “All’s well.” It’s not. “You wanna put your paint on, now? Don’t pack it into the cuts, and try not to put it too close to them. We’ll have to tell John and his lusus—fuck. I don’t know. But we’ll figure out something to tell them; hiding it isn’t worth giving you an infection.”

“Whatever you think is best, brother, I believe you.” 

That is  _ exactly  _ what he should not do, you think, but you hum in acknowledgement and watch as he applies his paint in smooth, careful strokes. Once he’s finished, the both of you retreat back to the couch and curl up together. It’s not long before you hear the jingle of keys and tense, shuffling away from Gamzee to sit stiffly on the other side of the couch. He looks longingly after you but doesn’t follow, leaning back against his side and rolling his head over the back to watch the door.

John steps in quietly, a bright green rucksack over his shoulders. He beams when he sees the two of you awake, showing you all his flat, straight teeth. “Hi, guys,” he says, his voice  _ way  _ too cheerful for three in the afternoon. His eyes are so  _ blue.  _ “How was your day?”

“It was motherfuckin’ miraculous, bro,” Gamzee says, grinning at him. Ugh. That’s even creepier when his head is hanging upside-down off of the couch. “Got my sleep on good and proper and feel a fuck-ton better for it. How was yours?”

“It was pretty boring—school, blegh.” John wrinkles his nose, dropping his rucksack by the door and moving towards you. He pauses as his eyes cross Gamzee’s face—catching on the slashes, no doubt—and you fight the urge to bristle. “I got to see my friends, though, which was awesome. You should meet them before you leave—I think you’d really like them.”

“Shit, I’d love to,” Gamzee says, straightening up as John takes a seat on the couch between you. “Friends are the  _ best.  _ My friends—” He falters, glances at his hands. “Damn. They were the  _ bomb,  _ man. You couldn’t ask for a better clade.”

“A clade?” John peeks curiously at Gamzee. “What’s that?”

“It’s like a—a—shit.” Gamzee waves his hands around like if he just tries hard enough his fingers will snag and grab the right word from the air. “A group of friends what you do life with. Hunt and spar and play games and shit, keep each other from gettin’ hurt. Well—supposed to, anyway.”

“It’s an old word,” you add, fiddling with the claw of your stuffed crab and trying to ignore the fact that John is making himself cozy on the meager remnants of your pile. (You’d crammed as much as you could into your sylladex and your rucksack, but most of the space had gone to clothes and technology and weapons, food and sopor concentrate and medical supplies. You didn’t have much spare space for piling shit.) “From when adults lived on Alternia, instead of in the fleet. They used to group up to survive—the groups were called clades. Clades like that, who share territory and hunt together and shit, don’t really exist anymore. The word stuck, though.”

“Wow, that’s really neat,” John says, and fuck you, you think he actually means it. You scowl at him. “Like little family groups? Like—a troop of baboons, or a pack of wolves, or something.”

“Yeah, like that,” Gamzee says, his ears pricking—Sollux had roped him into watching  _ Planet Earth,  _ and he’d fallen head over horns for most of the (sickeningly cute) animals on this planet. “Do humans not have that?”

“No, we do, kind of—except we usually don’t hunt or fight for territory, heh.” John leans his head back against the couch, shows you his smooth brown throat like it doesn’t concern him at all. “I think we just call our groups  _ families.  _ Although maybe that’s limiting—I guess if I had a clade, it would be my family  _ and  _ my friends. What was your clade like?”

“It was shitty and small and stupid,” you mutter, leaning your elbow on the arm of the couch and propping your chin up. You can see your reflection in the shiny black screen of the TV—small and petulant and brooding. God, you hate yourself. “But—it was good. There were three others, besides me and Gamzee. Stupid assholes, all of them, but—” But you love them. You love them  _ so much.  _ “They were nice.”

“Were they your family? Your foster family, I mean?” John asks. You shoot him a glare and he hastily adds, “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But—Karkat, my dad is gonna ask tonight. He wants to know.”

“Why?” you ask, pulling your feet onto the couch so you can curl up tighter. Across from you, you can see Gamzee’s shoulders hunching nervously. “The fuck does he need to know?”

“Because—” John gestures empathetically at your face, then Gamzee’s. “This! It’s not— _ okay. _ ”

“What’s not?” You touch your face, frowning. Your fingers brush your bruise and you wince. “This? So we got  _ hurt.  _ Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was a crime.”

“No, of course it’s not.” John shakes his head adamantly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, either of you.” Ha! If only he knew. “But your family, they shouldn’t have hurt—they shouldn’t have  _ let _ you be hurt. I know you don’t have families on Alternia, but they’re like—clades, you know? Would one of your—clade members—?”

“Clademates,” you supply, picking irritably at the soft red fuzz on your crab.

“Yeah, that. Would they ever hurt you?”

“If it was the only way to solve a dispute, fuck yeah. Trolls aren’t humans, John. If we have to fight, we fight. We aren’t made with paper skin and glass bones.”

“Okay—jab at the human race in general aside— _ generally,  _ clademates are supposed to look out for each other?”

“I mean—yeah, sure, generally.”

“Well, that’s what human families are supposed to be like. Minus the fighting, I mean. They look out for each other. Human parents especially—they’re supposed to be responsible for their young. They feed them and shelter them and make sure they don’t get hurt.” A waste of an adult who could be better used fighting, you think, but that’s mammals for you. “So if  _ your  _ foster parents aren’t doing that, it’s bad. For them, not for you. Did your parents—?”

You shake your head. “Fuck no. Our family didn’t hurt us, Egbert. We—”

“Then why come here so suddenly?” John demands, leaning forward. You pin your ears, bare your teeth in an instinctive threat, but he doesn’t move away. Stupid little punk. You always knew he was. “Why come here in such a rush, under-packed and scared and hurt the way you are?  _ Something  _ went wrong, Karkat. Something you’re running from. If you tell us, we can  _ help  _ you, we can—”

_ “You can’t help,”  _ you hiss, recoiling at the idea—you’ve dragged enough of your friends into this mess,  _ fuck that noise.  _ “Nobody can help. It’s our—”

“Ha!” John points victoriously at you, grinning, although there’s a sad little twist to it. “Got you. So you  _ admit  _ something’s wrong.”

Gamzee coughs nervously, the little wet rattle in his lungs grating against your frayed nerves. “Alright, Egbro, you done caught us,” Gamzee drawls, eyes half-lidded but ears swiveling uncertainly. “Shit wasn’t great back in Tontorak, but we got it handled. Ain’t nothin’ to get your worry on about now. We’ll be here but a few days and then we’ll be up and out your hair.”

“What? No!” John’s eyes widen, and he leans towards Gamzee, and hey, wouldn’t you know, that’s worse than when he’s leaning towards you. Your claws curve into your palms. “No way. You aren’t going  _ back  _ when you leave here, are you?”

“Huh?” Gamzee bares his teeth, licks them—an unconscious response to the idea of returning to Nuodel, you think, and you don’t blame him. “No way, motherfucker. Ain’t never goin’ back there.”

“Then where are you going?” There’s an almost-panicked gleam in John’s eyes now, you think, and it’s feeding your own panic a goddamn feast. “Are there—your clade, if they’re not your family? Someone in your clade, can you stay with them?”

“I—shit, I dunno.” Gamzee shoots a pleading look at you over John’s head. “Ain’t quite planned that out right yet—”

“We don’t know,” you say, your voice hard and flat. John’s eyes snap back around to look at you. “We don’t know where we’re going, but we’ll figure it out. You don’t need to worry about it. We just needed a few days to recoup and plan, and then we’ll leave.”

“But where are you going to  _ go?” _

“The fuck does it matter?” you snap. “As long as we’re out of your hive—”

“Because you’re my friends!” John exclaims, bolting to his feet and beginning to pace. He runs his hands through his hair, fluffing it out in every single conceivable direction. “Because I  _ care about  _ you guys, oh my  _ god.  _ I know that’s hard for trolls to comprehend because you live in literally the Worst Society Ever, but  _ seriously.  _ I actually  _ give a shit  _ about the quality of your lives.”

“Why?” you demand, clenching your teeth. Something boils uncomfortably between your ribs—fear or anger or hate, you’re not sure and you don’t want to be. “Why the  _ fuck—” _

“You can’t tell me you don’t understand.” John whirls around, his eyes blazing. “I know you do. I know you care about your friends, as much as you pretend not to. The only difference between you and me is that I’m not  _ ashamed  _ of it. So don’t sit there and  _ tell me  _ you don’t understand why I give a shit about the both of you.”

You hunch your shoulders and grind your teeth and loathe the fact that he’s not wrong.

“So  _ yeah,  _ I need to worry about you. You’re homeless and hurt and you came to  _ me  _ for help, so you’re goddamn well going to get it. If you don’t have anywhere else to go, then  _ stay here.”  _ He steps towards you. His shoes, you notice, have tiny green ghosts doodled on them. That reminds you of Gamzee. (As long as you study his shoes, you won’t have to think about how desperately  _ honest  _ he sounds.) “Not forever, just—just until we can find someplace safe for you to stay. There’s a group home nearby. You could go to another foster family, a  _ better  _ one—”

“No.” You set your jaw, shake your head. “No way. Your lusus wouldn’t tolerate it.”

“Don’t tell me what  _ my lusus  _ will or won’t do,” John snaps, and you’re pretty sure if you looked up he’d be glaring at you.  _ “My lusus  _ isn’t some mindless animal who—”

You’re on your feet, then, burning up in a sudden surge of fury. “Fuck you!  _ My lusus  _ wasn’t, either. He was the fucking  _ best.  _ He never left me a day in my life, and there was always food, always shelter, and he never, _ ever  _ let anything hurt me. He was  _ incredible.  _ But you know what? Despite how incredible he was, despite how incredible your lusus may or may not be, he would never have tolerated another wiggler under my roof for more than a week, not unless it was  _ this  _ shithead—” You jab Gamzee in the shoulder. “And that only because he was quadranted to me, and the old crabshitter probably couldn’t smell the difference! I—”

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” You scowl, the fantastic rant you’d be gearing up for shattered by those two words. 

“I’m sorry,” John repeats, watching you solemnly, a frown on his face. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that your lusus was anything less than amazing. I shouldn’t have said it like that. But  _ Karkat.  _ A lusus and a—a  _ dad  _ are two very different things. A lusus is a  _ lusus,  _ and my dad is a  _ human.  _ There are so many differences there that you’re not even thinking about. He wouldn’t ever hurt a kid, whether they belonged to him or not. That’s not who he is. And he feels  _ compassion.  _ He wants to help others—it genuinely makes him happy.”

“That doesn't make any  _ sense—” _

“I know. I know it doesn’t make sense to you, and I’m  _ sorry.  _ I hate that it doesn’t.” John slides his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Listen. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. If you want to leave, we won’t stop you. But if you need a place to stay for a few weeks—hell, for a few months—then this is me, offering. You don’t  _ have  _ to leave. Nothing bad is going to happen if you stay.”

You flex your claws. That’s what Sollux said. That’s what Sollux said about the gang, and look where it  _ fucking  _ got you. Look where it got your palemate. No fucking way. You’re not getting tied down again, not  _ anywhere— _ you open your mouth to tell John as much, but a cold hand touches your wrist. You glance down and meet Gamzee’s eyes, see the soft plea in them. Fuck.

“We’ll think about it, brother,” Gamzee says, glancing at John—but you get the feeling he’s not only talking to John. “Can’t rightly say it doesn’t sound like a good deal upfront. You sure your motherfuckin’ lusus—your dad, he won’t mind? Won’t be getting rough on us for eating you out of hive and home?”

John laughs, his eyes crinkling up at the edges, and the sound cuts through the thick tension in the room like a knife. “Come on—I’m sure you don’t eat  _ that  _ much. We’ll survive.”

“I dunno, bro.” Gamzee grins, leaning into the couch and draping his arms across the back. “Should be comin’ up on second growth soon, the both of us. Shit gets a troll  _ hungry. _ ”

“My dad will be happy for the opportunity to cook, trust me.” John drops back into the space between you, and you sigh and flop down beside him—defeated.  _ Momentarily.  _ “I just hope you like cake.”

“Mm—” Gamzee wiggles his shoulders, ears flicking happily. “Can’t think of a thing as I would like better, at the moment.”

“Then you’re in for a treat if you decide to stay here,” John says, and  _ hey,  _ that’s cheating—he is totally bribing your (very gullible) palemate into staying here. “My dad  _ loves  _ making cake. He makes so much cake you’ll get sick of it.”

“Shit, that don’t sound like a thing as is possible.”

“Give it a few months,” John says, wrinkling his nose. “Anyway—what do you guys want to do tonight? I have movies, and games, and—”

“I thought your dad wanted to talk to us,” you say, grimacing at the idea and studying your claws. They’re impeccably sharp. Somehow, that doesn’t comfort you. 

“After that,” John amends. “And before that, too. He won’t be home for a while. So if there’s anything you guys want to do—”

“We need to talk first,” you say. “Gamzee and I. About what we’re going to do after all of this—we need to decide that before your lusus gets home.” You clear your throat, looking pointedly at him. “It’s something we should probably decide alone.” 

“Oh—oh, yeah, of course.” John fiddles with the hem of his shirt, hopping up and off of the couch. “I’ll be in my room if you need me, or want a second—third opinion.”

“Much obliged, brother,” Gamzee says, smiling at John as he climbs the stairs (reluctantly, you think) and vanishes into his bedroom. Once he’s gone, Gamzee turns his eyes back to you, pricking his ears. “Now let’s plan this shit, best friend. Where go we from here?”

“Where do  _ you  _ want to go?” you ask, shuffling closer to him again, pressing your thigh against the cool, powerful length of his. 

“Anywhere you want to go. I’d follow you to the ends of the universe and back if you asked me to, little brother,” he says earnestly, and looking at those wide, fervent eyes of his, you know he isn’t lying. 

“I know,” you mutter, cupping his face in your hands and leaning your forehead against his chin. He lifts it, settles it between your horns instead. “I know you would, you obsessive asshole. But what do  _ you  _ want? Where would you choose to go?”

“Well,” Gamzee says, hesitating. “I suppose if this motherfucker could pick and choose like—shit, what Egbro’s saying doesn’t sound too bad. We stay here as long as his dad lets us, be that a few days or a few perigees. We’ll have food, shelter. If we ever get a want to leave, I don’t think they’d try to keep us here—and anyway, if they did, the dad’s soft enough he wouldn’t be too hard to kill. I could get us free again, best friend.”

“John would be pissed if you did that,” you remind him, nuzzling against his collarbone. “Let’s—not kill anybody, if we can help it.”

Gamzee is quiet a moment, and then he asks, “You worried I’ll do somethin’ bad here, bro? Worried I’ll do something to John or his dad as I ought not?”

You chew your lip, then exhale gustily. “Well, you can’t blame me. I don’t  _ think  _ you will, but—I didn’t think you would try to hurt Equius, either.”

“Nah, I get it, littlest.” He nestles closer to you. Admits, his voice soft, “And I’m scared, too. But I think as long as I’ve got you and the sopor, I’ll be okay. I always was before.”

“Yeah, you were. I think you’ll be okay. Besides, you’re not getting away from me again.” You butt your head up against his jaw. “You’re stuck with me, you giant bastard. I’ll be there to shoosh the  _ shit  _ out of you if you ever even  _ think  _ about hurting someone like that again.”

Gamzee rattles off a content little purr, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into his lap. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, best friend.”

“Mm.” You curl up in his lap, let him wrap his arms around you. “I guess it wouldn’t be  _ bad  _ to stay here, at least a little while longer—just until we can figure something else out. We can’t go to that group home, though, or anywhere else like that. That involves a lot of legal shit, and we—”

“—are most motherfucking illegal,” Gamzee finishes, sighing softly. “Yeah, I hear you, invertebrother. No rest for the motherfucking wicked, and shit.”

“We’ll need to go somewhere else. Fuck, maybe we  _ should  _ just live out in the middle of nowhere. It can’t be that bad, right? There aren’t  _ that  _ many predators here—not any that could fight off a weaponized highblood, anyway—and we’d be able to hunt or fish if we needed to. We could build shelter. I bet we could do it.”

“I bet we could,” Gamzee agrees, “but you’d not be happy, little brother—not out there, sequestered away from all as might love you. You need people, you need friends, need somethin’ to fill up that great big heart of yours. You’d get bored, twiddling sticks in a forest.”

You hate that he’s right. “Shit. Maybe. But if things get too bad here and we don’t have a better idea, we can do that. In the meantime, we can work on a back-up plan. Would—would you want to live with Tavros for a little while, maybe?”

“Shit yeah I would, bro,” Gamzee says, a dopey little grin sprawling across his face as you mention Tavros. You’re slightly jealous.  _ Slightly,  _ damn it. “But he’s got hisself livin’ at a school, and there ain’t no room for another couple trolls in his teeny-tiny block. Wouldn’t be anywhere to keep ourselves hidden, either, if someone got curiosity about us and our illegal-ness.”

You huff out a soft breath, propping your chin on his bony shoulder. You’re both hard edges and sharp teeth, and you don’t seem to  _ fit  _ the way you used to. “Right. Well, we can figure something out, now that we have more time.”

“So we can stay? A few perigees, even, if the dad’ll have us that long?” Gamzee asks, doing a little excited wiggle. Your chest feels warm, when he does cute shit like that. “Stay here with Egbro and his movies and his comfy couch and his bitchtits friends?”

“I  _ suppose,”  _ you say, trying to sound as begrudging at you can. “Provided they don’t try to send us to a group home or kick us out because we’re sketchy and dangerous and terrible.”

Gamzee chirps once, twice, then has the fucking nerve to  _ chirr  _ at you, squirming happily. You roll your eyes but kiss his dumb cute face anyway—kiss his lips where they curve up into a wide grin, kiss his wickedly-sharp fangs and the gash across his temple. “This is gonna be motherfuckin’  _ awesome,  _ bro,” he says, hugging you tightly to him. “The two of us, in a safe little hive, with food and drink and no more Nuodel and no more training and no more shitty withdrawals—”

“Yeah.” You laugh quietly, but there’s a tinge of bitterness to it you can’t quite get rid of. “Yeah, I guess anything is better than that hellhole we were in. I can’t believe we stayed for so long.”

Gamzee pauses, and you scent the change in his mood before he speaks—guilt. He suddenly smells like the heavy, sickly-sweet of guilt. “Brother,” he starts. “There’s shit I gotta  _ tell  _ you about that place. I ain’t been wholly honest with you.”

You knew. You knew he was keeping secrets from you. There was never a question in your mind about  _ that,  _ but to hear him admit it so brazenly still makes you flinch. What’s more, it reminds you of  _ your  _ secrets. “I know,” you murmur, turning your head to burrow into the crook of his neck. “Me, too.”

Gamzee lets out a soft breath. “That’s okay. That’s alright, little brother.” You wonder whether he’s trying to convince you or himself. “We’ll be honest with each other, now.”

“Soon we’ll tell each other everything,” you assure him, although the thought—well, terrifies you, quite frankly. “We don’t have time right now—that’s gonna take one  _ hell  _ of a jam, and the dad will be home soon. Can you wait a while longer?”

Gamzee hums unhappily, but he nods, digging his pointy chin into the top of your head. “Waited this long already—what’s a few days motherfuckin’ more?”

“Thank you.” You pap his chest, chewing your bottom lip. There’s just  _ one  _ more thing that’s bothering you—

“Our clade,” Gamzee says, before you can. “What the hell are we to do about our clade, best friend? I know they aren’t mine to—to worry about, anymore, I did motherfucking desert that right and I know it well, but  _ shit.  _ We can’t just leave them there. What if Nuodel decides to hurt them because of us?”

You shake your head, latching onto the one fact you simply  _ must  _ believe if you’re to keep yourself from bolting straight back to Tontorak. “She won’t. Nepeta and Equius were pretty obviously pissed with us when we left—she won’t think they helped us at all, and Sollux is too valuable for them to hurt. Especially since he’s busy yanking purplebloods from space for them.” You snort. “They won’t want to get on  _ his  _ bad side.”

“...you think?” Gamzee asks, pulling back to look hopefully at you.

“Yeah,” you say, determined. “I’m sure. All three of them are more than capable of taking care of themselves, and they’ve been with the gang longer than we have, anyway. If they wanted to leave, they would. Besides, even if we  _ did  _ go back for them, where the fuck would we go? The two of us staying here is one thing, but  _ five  _ trolls under a single lusus’ roof? Bullshit, and I don’t care  _ how  _ compassionate John’s dad is. We’d all be kicked out before the end of the week.”

Gamzee hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, motherfucker, you’re right. They’ll be okay.”

“They’ll be okay,” you repeat, to convince yourself as much as you’re trying to convince him. “They’re all pissed as fuck right now, anyway. Nepeta and Equius are giving us the cold shoulder—which we completely deserve, by the way—and Sollux sent me this weird message that made it kind of seem like he’d forgiven me but also kind of like he was still pissed?”

“Did he?” Gamzee arches an eyebrow. “That’s odd. Brother doesn’t usually change his mind so fast.”

“That’s what I thought.” You pull out your phone, flipping it around so he can read the message himself. “It’s  _ weird.  _ It doesn’t sound like him.”

Gamzee frowns, a little wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. “Huh. That is weird. There’s a typo, too—most unlike him. You think he’s bein’ that way ‘cause he’s pissed?”

“I dunno. Maybe.” You scowl down at your phone. “I’m gonna wait for him to cool down a little more, I guess. If he messages me again I’ll be benevolent and humor his fickle-ass moods.”

“Fair enough, little brother. Well, if that’s all that that all sorted, should we get John?” Gamzee asks, pricking his ears. “He did seem to want to be getting his chill on with us. A motherfucker feels kinda bad, cornerin’ him in his own hive like this.”

You flap a hand dismissively at him, squirming reluctantly out of Gamzee’s lap to sit next to him, with a Socially Appropriate number of inches between your hips. You troll John to let him know he can return from his tiny exile, and he jogs down the stairs a few seconds later. His big front teeth worry at his bottom lip, though he beams at you both when your eyes meet. 

“Hey,” he says, settling onto the couch next to you. He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees so he watch you and Gamzee. “So? What did you guys decide? Or would rather wait until my dad is home to—?”

“I suppose,” you interrupt, sighing heavily to let him know you are not enthused about this decision (though you suppose it’s the best option you have at the moment), “that we’ll stay here for as long as you’ll have us. With  _ two—” _

John makes a strange, happy human noise—practically a squeal, you think—and surges forward to hug you, then evidently thinks better of it (a wise choice) and knocks his head against yours like the clumsy fuck he is. He pulls back laughing, his glasses askew and his eyes shining. “Ohmygod, that’s  _ great!  _ That’s gonna be  _ so awesome,  _ I get to  _ live  _ with you guys—”

“ —with two stipulations,” you continue, raising your voice and glowering at him (although something inside of your does purr happily, seeing how excited he is to be with you. Friend. John. He’s your friend). “One: we  _ do not  _ go to a foster home or wherever your lusus is going to want to ship us off to. If we need to leave, we will, but we’ll take care of ourselves after that. Two: we do not get the legal system involved in this  _ whatsoever.  _ That’d be more trouble for us then it would be for our, uh, foster family.”

John frowns, scratching his chin. “I—I mean, that’s fair, but—Karkat, what your family did was  _ wrong.  _ They need to face the consequences for their actions, and they can’t be allowed to foster anymore kids. We need to tell  _ someone  _ who can do something about it.”

“Well, if that’s the way you feel, we can just be on our merry goddamn way,” you snap. “We’re not staying here if you get your shitty human legal system involved. That’s too much trouble for us. They’d take us away from here and shove us into some other shitty home, anyway, you  _ know  _ they would.”

John lets out a soft breath, deflating. “I mean—crap. Yeah, they probably would.” Those big front teeth come out to worry his lower lip again. “Were there any other kids? In your family?” You shake your head. “Then—then okay. As long as they’re not hurting anyone else, it should be fine.”

“Your morals are weak, John,” you say, flashing him a sharp grin. His head jerks up and he opens his mouth to protest, but you beat him to it, adding, “That’s good. Means you’ll live longer, you little dumbass. Now—I thought you said something about entertaining us?”

John grins, reaching for the TV remote. “Well, it is my solemn  _ duty  _ as your host to keep your entertained. Have you ever seen  _ Twilight,  _ Karkat? Oh my god, really? Because it seems like the kind of shitty romance that is  _ right  _ up your alley—”

So you spend the next hour or so tucked up on John’s couch, watching  _ Twilight  _ (he’s right, you have to admit—it  _ is  _ the kind of shitty romance that’s right up your shitty, romantic alley). The situation is stupidly pleasant, you have to admit. Being here, with Gamzee on one side, safe and sound and  _ okay,  _ and John on the other, all flashy grins and bright eyes—it’s nice. You can’t quite shake the constant, nagging paranoia that insists  _ something’s not right  _ and  _ something bad is going to happen soon,  _ but other than that—yeah. Yeah, you’re okay. And you’re going to  _ be  _ okay.

...aren’t you?

* * *

Your mouth is full of blood and your eyes burn. You feel like they’ve been burning for a long, long time. Your mouth is full of the static stuck in your bones. Your flesh feels raw. The thin black hairs on your arms and the back of your neck bristle with electricity. In your mind, you can hear them whispering.

_ ...motherfucker like that could floor a  _ city.  _ didn’t you feel them? the spiders between your fingers? the blood in your lungs? it felt like drowning it felt like drowning over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over… _

_ didn’t want that job I didn’t want that job i knew it wasn’t going to end well and holy fuck was I  _ right—

_ —do without me? oh, she’ll be so lost and confused—i don’t want to leave. i don’t want to leave her. _

_ i’m scared. i’m so scared. _

Voices of the damned, of the deceased and the doomed, and there are so  _ many  _ of them. They keep you up late into the day, clawing at your ears and screaming until your throat is raw and blood splatters the floor in thick yellow droplets when you cough.

_ what’s out there? on the other side? is there anything other than this? there has to be, right? this can’t be it. this can’t be all there is. _

_ fuck that hurts that hurts stOP THAT HURTS PLEASE STOP— _

_ shit, where am i? this isn’t the house—dad? where’s my dad?  _

And then, oh, the worst of the voices—quiet and resigned and painfully, horribly gentle.  _ Sollux? Sollux, is that you? Oh, no. Oh, my little diamond— _

It feels like drowning, over and over and  _ over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for all of the comments last chapter!! i lack the Mental Energy to go through and answer them, but i read each one and they mean a lot!! :D


	3. we have buns in the oven, people!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Yes! You are mine!”  
the mother states with glee.  
“You’re small and round and helpless,  
but I can tell from your blunt teeth.”  
-  
The evil has its own young.  
Evil could these be?  
“I think not,” says their mother.  
“Simply born with sharp teeth.”
> 
> —“Sharp Teeth,” by Dead Sound
> 
> chapter track: "light" by sleeping at last

“Aha, Mr. Egbert—I thought I might find you here, you sneaky sneaker, you.”

“Ms. Lalonde.” You tip your hat to her as Ms. Lalonde stops in front of you, her hands on her hips and her eyes twinkling. “To what do I owe the pleasure of such a noble epithet?”

“I heard tell through the grapevine—the  _ nonalcoholic  _ grapevine, settle down, mister—that you had a pair of freeloaders at your house. What’s that about, hm?”

“My, my, word certainly does travel fast.” You smile, setting a loaf of bread into your shopping cart before you head for the meat aisle—living with carnivores is going to take a little bit of cooking creativity, you think. Ms. Lalonde falls into step beside you, her heels clicking on the tile floor. “Did you hear from that from Rose?”

Ms. Lalonde inclines her head. “Who, I presume, heard it from John. But enough about the roots of this intriguing grapevine—is it true? Are you keeping trolls at your house?”

“I am. Although—” You scoop up a package of ground beef, humming thoughtfully. “I seem to be having a bit of trouble deciding what to feed them.”

Ms. Lalonde is unusually silent for a time, and in that time, you decide to stick with something simple for dinner tonight—hamburgers will do. Terezi always seems to enjoy them, anyhow, and they’re customizable enough that your houseguests should be able to avoid any allergies you don’t know about. 

“How long are they staying?” Ms. Lalonde asks as you add the ground beef to your cart. When you glance over at her, her lips are pursed in thought.

“I don’t precisely know,” you admit, strolling towards the condiments aisle. You think you’re out of ketchup, or at least most of the way to an empty bottle—better safe than sorry. “A few days, I would presume, although we haven’t discussed it yet. That’s on the agenda for tonight.”

“Well, if they  _ are  _ staying for a few more days, could I be so bold as to suggest something?”

“When have you ever had to ask me for permission to be  _ bold?” _ you ask, chuckling.

“A fair point.” She grins up at you, her eyes bright and her hair curling in soft strands around the dark skin of her face. You don’t oogle, because that would be untoward, but you do allow yourself a moment of wonder at how utterly brilliant she always manages to be. Even the horrendous fluorescent lighting of the grocery store fails to wash out her majesty—it’s impressive, to say the least. “In that case, do you think your guests would have time to meet Terezi? And are they  _ safe  _ enough to meet Terezi?”

You arch your eyebrows, tucking a fresh bottle of ketchup into your cart. Ms. Lalonde adds a jar of relish, looking expectantly at you. “Well, they’re as safe as any ordinary teenage boy would be, I suppose. I haven’t gotten to know either of them very well as of yet, but they seem polite enough, and John adores them. I’d have to ask them if they wanted to meet Terezi, but I don’t see why they wouldn’t. Is there a particular reason you’d like for them to meet?”

“I think it would be good for her—Terezi, I mean. She hasn’t been around other trolls since she was very young, from what I understand.” Ms. Lalonde hums thoughtfully, pulling on the edge of your cart to guide it towards the pets’ aisle. “I feel as though meeting other trolls might help give her insight into some of her behaviors, and maybe it’ll—oh, I don’t know. Make her feel less lonely? Not that she  _ is  _ lonely, but—”

“No, I understand,” you say, a smile tugging at your mouth. “That’s very sweet of you, Ms. Lalonde. I’ll ask our guests what they think and give you a call tonight to let you know.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Egbert. I appreciate it very much.” She rests a hand on your shoulder, then scoops up a bag of cat food and sets it in the cart. 

“You’re more than welcome,” you say. “You know, Terezi will be very lucky to have you as a mother, if all goes well.”

The smile she bestows upon you then is soft but achingly hopeful—the look of a child on Christmas morning combined, you think, with the nerves of a new parent seeing their infant for the first time. It is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful smiles you have ever seen. “Ah, for her sake, I hope you’re right. She deserves a good mother, after all she’s been through.”

“And a good mother is exactly what she’ll have,” you assure her. Ms. Lalonde ducks her head, but you can still see the curve of her smile, painted in dark lipstick. Your heart feels warm. “Now, then—did you get everything you needed?”

“I did indeed. Let us shove our money into capitalism’s endless maw and blow this popsicle stand like the badass parents we are.”

You laugh, pushing the cart towards the check-out. “Well, when you put it that way, it almost makes me feel heroic.”

“Trust me, darling, it takes several daily acts of heroism to be a successful single parent. We are the badass heroes, it’s us.”

The two of you purchase your things, and you help her load her groceries into her car before saying your goodbyes and returning to your own car. You set your bags in the trunk, then roll the cart back into one of the corrals in the parking lot. The drive home is quick—one of the many perks of living in a suburban environment. When you step inside, you see John’s bag by the door, and you hear the noisy chatter of voices—voices that grow  _ much  _ quieter when you shut the door behind you with a soft  _ click.  _

“Hi, Dad.” John waves happily at you, a troll nestled on either side of him. His hair is tousled and there are creases of worry around his eyes, but he’s still grinning. Your boy. Your son. You will never  _ not  _ be delighted to see him. “How was your day?”

“It was wonderful,” you say, setting your groceries on the kitchen table before returning to the living room to greet your guests. The small troll—Karkat, wasn’t it?—is curled up against the arm of the couch, watching you warily. The taller troll, Gamzee, sprawls more loosely on the opposite side of the couch, though you notice that his sleepily-lidded eyes never leave you for more than a second. “Hello Karkat, Gamzee. Did the three of you have good days?”

“We did,” Karkat says, nodding stiffly. You feel a pang of pity for the both of them, the poor things. You can’t imagine being so young and so terrified of the world already. They can’t be much older than John—fourteen years? Fifteen? 

“And I did, too,” John says, leaning forward. There’s a tense set to his shoulders. You suppose he’s worrying about your conversation tonight, and you can’t have that. You ruffle his hair and head back towards the kitchen—cooking has always helped distract him from his worries. “I told Rose and Terezi about Karkat and Gamzee, and they were super interested. Do you think we could all hang out here sometime? This Friday, maybe?”

“I don’t have any problems with that, but I suppose it’s up to Karkat and Gamzee. Ms. Lalonde did mention that she wanted Terezi to meet them—what do you boys think?” you ask, unpacking your groceries. You hear John trot into the kitchen, and then the quiet steps of the trolls following him. “Would you be up for a little get-together this Friday?”

“We’d be okay with that,” Karkat says from behind you—his words have an unusual lilt to them, thick with the burrs and clicks of an Alternian accent, but his English is stubbornly perfect—unlike his gangly companion’s. You’re grateful Karkat’s the spokesman between the two of them, but to be polite, you seek Gamzee’s agreement, too. (You doubt very much that he’ll disagree with Karkat, though. You haven’t known them for very long, but it’s been long enough to determine who’s the deciding personality, between the two of them.) “Gamzee? Would that be alright with you, too?”

“Oh—yeah, man, totally,” Gamzee says. His voice is a low drawl, his words much more heavily accented than Karkat’s, but slow enough that you can still understand him. “I’d be down with that.”

“Brilliant. I’ll call Ms. Lalonde and let her know. John, would you mind informing Terezi, so she can work out the details with her staff?”

“You got it, pops. I’ll talk to her tomorrow at school,” John says, reaching for the package of ground beef. “Are we making dinner?”

“We sure are.”

“Hamburgers?”

“You bet. Would you mind making the patties for me?”

John washes his hands and then unwraps the meat, dumping it into a large mixing bowl and reaching for the spices you’ve already set out on the counter. As he does, you reach into the cabinets and pull out a skillet, setting it on the stovetop to begin heating. The trolls hover in your peripheral vision, and you’re content to let them. If that’s where they feel safest, than by all means, that’s where they can stay. 

Then, however, Karkat surprises you by stepping forward, inserting himself into the gap between you and John. “How can we help?” he asks, flicking one tapered ear in your direction, although he keeps his eyes angled towards John. 

“Oh, no, you don’t need to do that,” John says, adding a pinch of minced garlic to the meat. You hear Gamzee snuffling at the air behind you, see him drift a half-step closer. “You guys are guests—you can chill out in the living room if you want. We’ll be done soon.” Karkat shifts hesitantly, waits a half-second too long, and John quickly adds, “Oooor you can help, if you really want to. Here—wash your hands and then you can mix this for me. Gamzee, you want in on this epic cooking action?”

Gamzee makes a raspy chirping noise—a happy sound, you hope—and moves to squish himself in on John’s other side. “Hell yeah, brother. How can I get to helpin’ a motherfu—uuuh, a dude out?”

“Can you grab the eggs from the fridge?” John asks. “They should be on the second shelf, in that blue carton—yeah, right there. You can set them down on the table. You know how to crack them? That’s okay. I’ll show you in juuuust a second—Karkat, you wanna take over here? I already added everything, so you can just mix it up with this spoon.”

A smile flickers across your face as you listen to your son—he does well with the trolls, you think. His voice is warm and cheerful, and every interaction seems sweet and earnest. He may have never met them in real life, before today, but it’s obvious that he cares for them a great deal—and you may or may not be crippled with parental bias, but you’ve always known John has good taste in friends. 

As John slips back to help Gamzee with the eggs, Karkat tentatively steps into his place and begins to stir the beef. He doesn’t look at you, but you  _ do  _ notice that he always keeps one ear angled in your direction. He’s scared of you, undoubtedly. It’s obvious in his white-knuckled grip on the spoon, in the hunch of his shoulders, in the almost-unnoticeable way he leans away from you if you move too quickly. They’re both scared to death of you, and that one fact makes you angrier than you’ve been in a long, long time—not at them, of course, but at whoever had the gall to teach them that fearing adults was a reasonable thing to do.

Time to start breaking the ice, then. Gently. 

“So, Karkat,” you begin, and that gets both of his ears flicked in your direction. Gamzee glances up from the table, too. If you speak to one, it seems, you speak to both. “Have you ever had hamburgers before?”

“I have,” Karkat says, glancing briefly in your direction before dropping his eyes again. “A few times, back in Tontorak.”

“Ah—have you been here long, then? On Earth, I mean.”

His shoulders shift, his grip on the spoon tightening as he continues to stir in jerky, quick little circles. At this rate, the beef will be too mushy—but that’s okay. Breadcrumbs can fix anything. “A little over a year.”

“And how have you enjoyed it, so far?”

“It’s been good. I mean.” His mouth twists in a wry little gesture you think is  _ almost  _ a smile. “Anywhere is better than Alternia.”

You make a thoughtful noise, drizzling oil across the skillet. “Yes, I’ve heard your home planet wasn’t very hospitable. I’m glad you both made it here safely. Here—would you like me to show you how to form the patties?”

Karkat nods, setting his jaw. You drag the bowl of beef towards you, and he watches you with unerringly intense focus as you mold the meat into a patty. You set the first one on a clean plate as an example, then nudge the bowl back towards him. 

“Think you can handle that?” you ask. He nods, narrowing his eyes. The tip of his black tongue sticks between his rounded fangs as he concentrates, beginning to form the patties. His pinprick claws leave tiny holes in the edges of each one, but that’s no harm at all. 

As soon as he’s made a couple, you place them on the skillet with a sizzle of noise that causes him to jerk his eyes in your direction. You try not to respond—let him figure out that it’s okay on his own, that he doesn’t have to fear every noise you make, that you’re not a constant threat to his life. You begin to hum softly, and that has his ears twitching nervously for a few minutes. After he’s made a few more patties, however, he seems to readjust to the noise and relax—slightly, anyway. 

Your heart hurts for him. For them. For these two wandering, injured, terrified children who have flung themselves so suddenly into your life.

“Buns are done,” John says cheerfully, sliding a tray of hamburger buns onto the counter. All of them have received a careful egg-wash and a sprinkling of garlic and paprika. “Karkat, gonna have to ask you to move your butt away from the oven for a sec.”Karkat wrinkles his nose and opens his mouth, then glances at you and closes it again, shuffling over to the side so John can slide the buns into the oven. He straightens back up, clapping. “We have  _ buns  _ in the  _ oven,  _ people, well done!”

“Well done indeed,” you say. “They looked scrumptious.”

“The scrumptious-est,” John agrees, nodding sagely and pulling the condiments and toppings from the fridge. “Gamzee did all the egg-washes himself.”

Gamzee straightens up when he hears his name, worrying his bottom lip with his two enormous eyeteeth. A smile flickers across your face as you realize what John’s trying to do—he’s a clever boy, your son. “Did he?” you ask, sliding two grilled patties onto a plate and replacing them with two raw. “They looked great. Fantastic job, Gamzee. Do you cook a lot?”

Gamzee does what you  _ think  _ is a happy wiggle, chirping quietly to himself before answering you. “Nah, not so much. Make pies, sometimes, and I know how to cook meat in an oven. Thaaaat’s about it. John says you cook a lot, though. You like it?”

“I do. It’s a bit of a hobby,” you admit, nudging the patties so they don’t stick to the skillet. “I prefer baking, above all, but working with any sort of food is fun. Cakes are a favorite, of course—would you boys like to have cake tonight? Or—ah, wait. You’re carnivores, aren’t you?”

Gamzee blinks those big, yellow-and-gray eyes at you. “Uuuh—shit, are we? I mean, I can be whatever a brother wants to me to be being. What’s a carnivore to be being, though?”

“A carnivore only eats meat,” John explains, carefully slicing a tomato. “You guys aren’t carnivores, don’t worry.”

“Oh?” You arch your eyebrows. “They’re not?”

John laughs, shaking his head. “No—sorry. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while.”

“So when Terezi came over—”

“She really likes meat, don’t worry. She wasn’t going to complain.”

“Oh, dear. The teeth—”

“They do  _ look  _ like carnivores,” John admits, peeking up at Gamzee’s snaggly fangs. “How do you guys even  _ chew  _ with all those needles in your mouth?”

“Toss me a slice of that and I’ll demonstrate for a brother,” Gamzee says, grinning and leaning towards the tomato slices. John tosses one into the air and Gamzee snaps it up with a speed you hadn’t seen in him yet—a quick dart forward and then the heavy  _ clack  _ of his jaws as he closes them around the slice. The way he chews, you realize, is that—well, that he doesn’t, really. He grinds his back teeth (which you assume are flat, lest he slice his own mouth open) a single time, then tips his head back and swallows the food more or less whole. 

“Woah,” John says.  _ “Neat.  _ Terezi doesn’t eat like that.”

Gamzee licks his teeth, humming happily. “Weird. Most trolls I got my know on of eat just that way—got too many pointy teeth for most anything else.”

“Yeah, you  _ do  _ have some seriously pointy teeth, my dude,” John agrees, leaning up on as his toes. Gamzee obligingly opens his mouth, showing off his mouthful of yellow-stained, sleek fangs. Most of the front teeth are wickedly sharp, but the back teeth, as you predicted, are flat. There doesn’t seem to be any particular order to them, though, and you have  _ no  _ idea how they fit together when he closes his mouth. 

“They usually aren’t so sharp,” Gamzee admits when he closes his mouth. “Got ‘em carved up some perigees ago.”

“You did _what _now?” John asks, arching an eyebrow as he resumes slicing the tomato. 

“Carved ‘em up. Well  _ I  _ didn’t, but a—a friend did it for me. Makes ‘em sharper, so you have a better bite, see?” He snaps his jaws together again, and it really does produce a frightfully heavy sound—you wonder how many pounds of pressure that bite contains. 

“It’s mostly cosmetic,” Karkat interrupts, drawing your attention back to him. He’s finished forming the patties and is watching his—friend? brother? what  _ are  _ they to each other, you wonder—with stiff shoulders and wary eyes. Gamzee glances over at him, dipping his chin slightly. 

“Yeah,” Gamzee agrees. He pauses to cough into his hands, then continues, “Mostly cosmetic. Trolls like to have sharp teeth—and sharp horns, and sharp claws.” He grins, flexing his claws and tossing his head in a way that you think is probably show-offy, for trolls. It certainly makes the light flash off of his horns. “Just gettin’ all my sharpness touched up, is all.”

“Yeah, yeah, you big show-off, you,” Karkat grouches, rolling his eyes. He glances back at you, then to his empty mixing bowl. “Uuh—what should I do with this? Sir?”

“I’ll get it, don’t worry. You can help John cut up the toppings, if you want,” you suggest, scooping up the mixing bowl and carrying it to the sink for a rinse. Karkat obediently pads to John’s side, and you listen as the three of them fall into easy conversation. It’s still stiffer than you think it would be if you weren’t here, but they seem to have an easier time relaxing when you aren’t looking at them or being anywhere in their personal space at all, really. 

Once the patties are grilled and the buns are toasted, you set them out beside the condiments and toppings with a flourish. “Viola!” you say, although you keep your voice calm and quieter than usual. “Hamburgers are ready for consumption, kids. Make them however you’d like to, and then let’s sit and eat. After that, I think we all need to have a bit of a talk.”

Gamzee and Karkat both wince at the word  _ talk,  _ but John does an excited little hop-hop and leaps for a plate. The four of you quickly prepare your hamburgers, then take your seats around the kitchen table. Karkat and Gamzee are quiet as they eat, and now that Gamzee has demonstrated, you can’t help but notice the distinct  _ lack  _ of chewing going on over there. Karkat bobs his head in a subtler way than Gamzee does, and often chews longer before he swallows, but the gesture is still obviously inhuman. They both eat a single hamburger, although you invite them to more, and you see Gamzee looking wistfully at the plate of leftovers.

Once the four of you are finished, John gathers your plates—unusually polite, and that, combined with his obvious excitement and/or stress, makes you think he definitely wants something from you. You already have a nagging suspicion you know what that something is, too. You lean back in your seat, trying to keep your posture as neutral as possible as John takes his seat across from you. The trolls sit on either side between the two of you, and in the absence of food as a distraction, they both turn to studying their claws.

“Right, then,” you say. Three sets of eyes snap in your direction. “Are you all ready to talk?” After a moment of hesitation on the trolls’ part, all three of them nod. “Good. First of all—Karkat, Gamzee, you’re both welcome here for as long as you need to stay. But if you plan on staying for more than a few days, we’ll need to make some decisions. If you’re  _ not  _ planning on staying for more than a few days, then we  _ also  _ need to make some decisions. So. Do the two of you know how long you plan to stay, yet?”

The three of them glance at each other, a silent conversation you aren’t privy to, before John glances back at you. “They—don’t know,” he says. “But it’s looking like it might be more than a few days. A few weeks, or—or months, maybe? If that’s okay. They just—they don’t have anywhere else to go, and we can’t just send them away, you know, or—”

You lift a hand—a small gesture to bring John to a pause, but both of the trolls flinch like you’re set to hit them. Rage curls in your chest (how dare someone hurt them, how dare someone hurt a  _ child)  _ before you breath it out again, lowering your hand. “John. Son. It’s alright. I’m not planning on sending them away if they need a place to stay. If they need to stay here for a few months, then they can stay here for a few months—but we’ll need a plan to move them out eventually. Legally, I can’t be responsible for the two of you. I’m not substitute for a foster parent, and our end goal needs to be getting the two of you placed with a permanent family.”

John lets out a soft breath of relief, and you see Karkat’s shoulders relax some. Gamzee doesn’t bother holding back a grin, and you return it, which only makes him grin wider. Good lord, he does have some sharp teeth. “Yeah, of course,” John agrees. “They won’t stay here forever. Just—long enough to figure some things out.”

“And it would seem that you  _ do  _ have quite a lot to figure out,” you say, looking from Karkat (eyes down, shoulders hunched) to Gamzee (fiddling with a necklace he’s plucked from its hiding spot beneath the collar of his shirt). “We need to talk about your previous foster family, and how we’re going to get you into another one. What you say here will be held in confidence—nothing leaves this room before we all agree to let it.”

“You won’t tell anyone?” Karkat asks, glancing suspiciously at you. “Not the police? Not the group home?”

“Not a soul, unless we all agree.”

Karkat lets out a soft breath, then lifts his chin. “Okay,” he says. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

You lean forward, folding your hands in front of you. You keep your voice calm, smooth—unthreatening. “How were you hurt, Karkat?” 

Karkat hesitates, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “I—was hit, but not by anyone in my family. I got into a fight with another troll. I can’t say that it was totally his fault, but—” He grimaces, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah. So. Nothing scandalous there, really.”

“And Gamzee?” you prompt, glancing over at him. He wilts under your gaze, closing his hand around the locket on his necklace. “How were you hurt?”

“I’d—rather not say, if it’s all the same to you—uh, sir.”

You hesitate—you don’t want to push at memories that are undoubtedly still sore, and it’s their right not to tell you if they don’t want to. On the other hand, if they’re still actively in danger—or if there are other children in danger—you have to consider that, too. “Very well. Tell me this, at least: do you still feel threatened by whatever hurt you?”

Gamzee pauses, glances at Karkat, then glances back at you and slowly shakes his head. 

“Alright. Were there any other children in your home?”

Again, a glance at Karkat, and then a shake of his head.

“Well, I’m grateful for that, at least.” You fiddle with your tie for a moment—a little anxious tic you’ve never quite managed to rid yourself of. “Presuming it wasn’t your foster family who hurt you, might I inquire as to why you both felt the need to run away?”

“Didn’t say they  _ never  _ hurt us,” Karkat mumbles, tracing a whorl in the dark wood of the table. “They were—unpleasant, in a number of ways. We tried to deal with it, but after a year—” He grimaces. “And this is the only place we could think to go. I know it’s not a great solution.”

“That’s quite alright. I’m glad you children managed to get yourselves out of what sounds like an incredibly unideal situation. You should be proud. And you don’t need to worry—as long as you’re here, I won’t let any harm come to you.”

“Yeah,” John adds, nudging Karkat’s elbow gently with his own. “Dad’s secretly a super-badass ninja warrior. There’s no way anybody’s gonna come and hurt you here.”

“And we’re—grateful, for that,” Karkat says, staring into his glass of water as though, perhaps, it contains the answers to all of life’s endless questions. “But we don’t want to be an unnecessary strain on you and John. Whatever we can do to make up for our stay, we’ll do it. We don’t have much money, but—whatever else you need, just let us know.”

“I’m not going to make children work for roof over their heads,” you assure him. “All I ask is that you behave politely and, perhaps, assist in the household chores once you’ve settled in.”

“Chores?” Karkat asks, a little furrow between his brows. Oh, dear. Well, you suppose you can’t expect a family as terrible as his sounds to have worried itself about something like  _ chores,  _ or training a sense of responsibility. You’re going to have your work cut out for you, it seems. (Somehow, you aren’t too terribly put-out about this.) 

“Indeed—John can show you tomorrow, if you’d like. He’s quite adept in them,” you say, offering your boy a grin.

“Oh, the pains of being an only child,” John says, groaning dramatically and leaning back in his seat. 

“Yes, yes, you’ve had to endure such difficulties in your life,” you say sympathetically. Karkat snorts, giving John A Look that has him grinning and reaching over to ruffle Karkat’s hair, right between his little horns. Karkat snaps his teeth at John’s hand—gently, and far enough away that you know he’s only playing—before casting a wary glance in your direction. You keep your face neutral, and he relaxes again. “Now, I’m afraid I  _ will  _ eventually want to know more about your foster family.”

Karkat winces, eyes snapping back down to his claws. “Yeah. We—uh. Figured as much.”

“I don’t know much about Alternian parenting,” you admit, “but I’d like to think that I’m rather experienced in Earth parenting. Do you two know what child abuse is?”

“Abuse of a child?” Karkat hazards.

A smile flickers across your face. “However did you guess? Yes, it’s abuse of a child. Most often it’s done to them by their parents or guardians, though not always. It can be physical, when they injure you or have the intent to do so. It can also be verbal, if they degrade you or insult you regularly, or it can be sexual.  _ Any  _ sexual contact between an adult and a child is abuse, and on Earth, child abuse is very, very illegal. Now, I’m not asking you to tell me if your family abused you, yet—though you should know that I already strongly suspect they have. I will want to know sooner or later, because if they have, we’ll need to press charges.”

Karkat hesitates, tapping a claw briefly against the table. “What if we don’t— _ want  _ to press charges?” he asks softly.

“I’m afraid in this case, we must. Normally it would be your decision, and I would respect that, but an abusive foster family cannot be allowed to continue to  _ be  _ a foster family. The system needs to be informed and proper consequences must be established.”

“...what if they make us go back?” Gamzee asks, his voice unusually quiet. When you look at him, his shoulders are hunched and his eyes downcast. “To the family, I mean. What if they decide we were the ones in the wrong?”

“If an adult hurts a child,” you say, very carefully, “that child is never in the wrong. How old are the two of you?”

“Seven sweeps,” Gamzee says. “Brother’s six, going on seven here in a few perigees.”

“Ah. I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me as to how long a sweep is…?”

“It’s a little over two years,” John says. “So—Gamzee’s fifteen, Karkat’s fourteen-almost-fifteen.”

Ah. So young, and already so tired and wary. It’s not  _ fair. _ “The two of you are definitely children, by Earth standards. If an adult was responsible for hurting you, you won’t be blamed—and you certainly won’t be sent back. I’ll do everything in my power to keep you away from your abusers, if that’s what you want.”

“Couldn’t think of a thing as I could want more,” Gamzee murmurs, his eyes lidding—he looks exhausted, miserable. You force yourself to breathe calmly. “We’re much obliged, Mr. Egbert.”

“We would like to stay away from them,” Karkat admits. He’s looking at Gamzee, deep concern etched into his face. Nobody that small should feel that troubled already. “But we would—prefer to keep the legal system uninvolved, at least for a while longer. We just want to—” He waves a hand in the air, grasping for words. 

“Recuperate?” John suggests. “You  _ have  _ been through a lot in the last year. Taking a few months off isn’t going to hurt, right, Dad?”

“I suppose not,” you say, scratching your chin. “Very well. The two of you can rest here for a few months, but after that, we must contact the court and inform them of your situation.”

“And then what?” Gamzee asks, pricking an ear up slightly. “Where all do we go from there, if the court gets involved?”

“A group home at first, I assume,” you say. “After that, into another foster family, and hopefully into an adoptive one.”

Gamzee’s ear falls again. He looks disappointed. 

“I promise there are good families out there,” you hasten to assure him. “The both of you just had the misfortune to be placed with one of the few terrible ones.”

“Yeah. Misfortune indeed,” Gamzee mumbles. “We got some kinda luck, huh, best friend?”

Karkat grunts in agreement, then looks at you again. “Thank you, Mr. Egbert. For all of this.”

“You’re more than welcome. Now, then—” You clap your hands together—quietly, so you don’t startle your guests. “Let’s go over some house rules and think about how we’re going to set you boys up for the next little while. Sleeping on the couch is fine for a few days, but we’ll need a better arrangement for anything longer than that. John, is that air mattress still in your closet?”

“Uuh—it  _ is,  _ but I don’t know how well it would survive thoooose,” John says, eyeballing Karkat’s claws. “Besides, wouldn’t you guys rather have ‘coons?”

“No, it’s okay,” Karkat says. “We have some piling stuff—if we could just get sopor patches…?” He looks cautiously at you, like asking for something is Bad and Terrible. 

“Certainly,” you say. “I don’t know that we have any at the stores in town, but perhaps we can order some online. Are there different types?”

“Uuh—I think so? The strongest ones are—are probably best, if we’re going to be sleeping completely dry.”

“Consider it done,” you say. “I’ll place an order tonight, and hopefully they’ll be here in a few days. Will you be alright without for that long?”

Gamzee frowns slightly, but Karkat nods. “We will. Thank you, sir.”

“You’re quite welcome. May I ask what your, ah— _ piling  _ stuff is?”

Karkat ducks his head, picking at the sleeve of his shirt. You think his cheeks flush slightly, although it’s hard to tell through the thick gray of his skin. “Oh, um—it’s pillows and blankets and things like that, mostly. We can sleep it in, if we don’t have ‘coons. It’s comfortable.”

You nod sagely—you have a good deal of xenobiological and sociological research to do, it would seem. “I understand. Do you have enough for the both of your piles, or would you like to purchase something else?”

“No, no, we have enough. We can share.”

“Nonsense—if you need more, we can buy you more. It’s really no problem,” you say. Karkat opens his mouth. Shuts it. John is making desperate hand-flapping gestures at you. 

“Dad.  _ Daaaad,”  _ he whisper-hisses, which is not very effective, considering Karkat and Gamzee are right between you and oh also he’s still flapping at you. “It’s an alien romance thing. They  _ like  _ to share.”

“Oh.  _ Oh.”  _ You sit back, your eyebrows lifting. That’s—certainly unusual. “The two of you are romantically involved?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Gamzee says, his eyes brightening. “Me ‘n Karkat are the palest diamonds this side of the universe, for sure. There is  _ so  _ much romance up in this bitch. I am the most pity-struck motherfucker you ever  _ seen _ —”

_ “Gamzeeshutup,”  _ Karkat hisses. He’s definitely blushing, now, the tips of his ears colored dusky red. “Sorry, Mr. Egbert, he has no social boundaries to speak of whatsoever. Just—tune him out. It’s what I do to preserve my sanity.”

Across the table, Gamzee sticks his tongue out at Karkat. You can’t help but chuckle—it’s the first flash of personality you’ve seen from him without the stain of his fear and without him first checking in with Karkat via furtive glances. “No, it’s quite alright,” you say. “I was merely under the impression that the two of you were brothers. I assume that’s not an accurate assumption, then?”

Karkat and Gamzee blink at you. “Well, sure enough he’s my brother,” Gamzee says. You are beginning to think that maybe aliens are stranger than Terezi would have you believe. “My best bro, my littlest sibling.”

“No, no, god, no, not like that,” John interrupts, laughing. Gamzee glances at him, ears flicking, and Karkat looks utterly baffled. “Not like that, Dad. Trolls don’t have brothers and sisters like we do—they all come from the Mothergrub, remember?”

You very  _ vaguely  _ remember a Mothergrub being mentioned at some point, and you tell him as much. 

“Oh, jeez,” John says. “Okay, so like—when a mommy troll and a daddy troll love each other very much—” Aaaand that’s as far as he gets before he’s bursting into giggles, hunching down in his seat. 

“Oh. My god.” Karkat looks horrified. “Are you seriously trying to explain troll reproduction right now, John? At the  _ table?  _ God, join the ‘I have no social boundaries’ club, why don’t you? Holy  _ fuck—” _

“Nah, bro, see, like—when trolls get their concupiscence on, they make this shit called genetic material, and it all gets mixed up inside the Mothergrub and then she lays a fuckton of eggs,” Gamzee explains, with far,  _ far  _ too many explicit hand gestures. “And lil’ bitty grubs hatch out the eggs—me ‘n Karkat are hatchmates, but that’s all the genetics we got in common. Mixed up in the same slurry, us, but there’s a thousand or so more from that batch that can say the same. Shit don’t make us  _ brothers. _ ”

Karkat groans and buries his face in his hands, then proceeds to click rapidly. You don’t know much about troll vocalizations, but he doesn’t sound too happy. 

“Aw, bro—” Gamzee reaches across the table, ruffling Karkat’s hair. “Ain’t no thing. You gotta be  _ mature  _ about this, see—”

Karkat’s head whips up to fix Gamzee with a blazing glare. “I’ll show you  _ mature,  _ you—you—” He glances in your direction, then looks back at Gamzee, lowering his voice. “I’ll  _ show  _ you.”

Gamzee winks at him. “I look forward to it, littlest. But nah—what makes us brothers is how we pity each other so goddamned much, you feel me?” he asks, glancing at you again. “He’s my brother ‘cause he’s part of my clade. He’s my friend, and one of the very best. But while we’re on the subject—” He squints at you. “How do  _ humans  _ get to be making grubs?”

“Oh god, nope nope nope nope.” John springs out of his seat. “I  _ already  _ had this talk, and once was too many times, I tell you. Ciao—” He bolts for the door (your tiny, traitorous offspring) and Karkat hops up after him. 

“Shit, me too—can I go? Do I have to stay for this humiliating disaster of a conversation?” he asks.

“Aww, best friend, but ain’t you curious?”

“If I’m  _ curious,  _ I’ll  _ Google  _ it, like a good respectful Earth citizen—”

“That sounds like a good idea, Karkat,” you add. “Perhaps we’ll put a hold on that conversation, Gamzee. Did your foster parents not…? Ah, who I am kidding. Of course they didn’t.” You heave yourself to your feet, stretching, and see Karkat shrink back slightly as he’s reminded that he’s smaller than you. “Ask your next foster parents, okay? I’m sure they’ll be delighted to have The Talk with you—you already seem to know a good deal about how your own reproductive system works, so I assume you don’t need to be educated about that.”

“Shit yeah, bro. I actually paid attention to that schoolfeed.”

“Oh my god, you’re such a  _ pervert,” _ Karkat wails into his hands, and you try your best not to smile. “Why am I in love with you? Why  _ me?” _

Gamzee laughs, and you hear his limping footsteps as he crosses over to Karkat. (You try not to think about how he got that limp. You aren’t going to like the story behind it, you’re sure.) “Because I’m one lucky motherfucker, that’s why,” he teases, and Karkat makes a soft little growling sound that has the hairs on the back of your neck raising, reminding you that you are  _ very  _ much a prey animal compared to trolls. 

“Boys,” you call over your shoulder, and both of them fall silent. “I do have one more question for the both of you. Your injuries—do any of them require a physician’s care?”

Silence for a moment, and then Karkat says, his voice carefully restrained again, “No, sir. We can take care of them ourselves. Thank you, though.”

“Are you certain?” You pull down a bottle of cherry cough syrup from the cabinet (after some quick Googling on your phone informs you that no, it isn’t poisonous to trolls) and pouring out a dosage. “Those cuts on your face look painful, Gamzee.”

“Nothing as won’t heal in time,” Gamzee assures you. “My palemate’s got a handle on it for me.”

“Your palemate?”

“Karkat,” Gamzee amends. “He’s my palemate. That’s the quadrant I’ve got him squared away in, lucky fucker that I am.”

“Quadrant…?”

“I will explain the intricacies of troll romance to you one day,” Karkat promises solemnly. “But that is a very long lecture and I think John wanted to play video games before he went to bed. Are we—can we go?”

“Oh, certainly. I didn’t mean to keep you,” you say, setting the medicine cup down on the counter beside the bottle. “Here. This is for Gamzee, if you want it. It may help with your cough. In the meantime, I have to go give Ms. Lalonde a call—I’ll see you boys later tonight.”

You take your leave, giving them both a wide berth as you slip back out of the kitchen. The medicine will be their choice—you can’t imagine trying to force anything onto them. Hopefully the two of them will trust you enough for Gamzee to take it, but if not, perhaps reading the ingredients on the bottle will convince them it isn’t poison. You’d rather get a professional’s opinion, but you can very well take them to the doctor’s without being their legal guardian, can you?

This is as much as you can do for them, right now—you only hope it will be enough.

* * *

“No response from that little buddy of yours, huh?” Noir asks, clucking his tongue. You spit a wad of yellow blood at his feet and feel a curl of victory as it lands on his glossy black shoe. Then his shoe slams into your face, which—yeah, dampens your victory, some. You feel another fang pop loose. “That’s too bad. Must not give a shit about you after all, huh, Captor?”

“Fuck you,” you say, spitting your tooth out. It clatters against the floor—one of your eyeteeth. Damn. Well, at least you have two of everything. “‘s probably too smart to answer such a sketchy-ass question.”

Noir kneels in front of you—tangles his fingers in your hair and tilts your head back, bares your throat to him and you growl low in your chest. “Maybe so. Ah, well—I suppose we’ll just have to send a few people out there, here in a few weeks. A little old-fashioned reconnaissance never hurt anybody.”

“No,” you say, grinning at him with all your broken teeth. “But a pissed-off mini-Makara has. That a risk you wanna take, asshole? You won’t have KK around to manipulate him, or inhibitors to tone him down—he’ll fucking  _ slaughter  _ your people.”

“Oh, I know. That’s the price of having an invaluable weapon—controlling him takes a little  _ creativity.  _ Hence why my people aren’t going to bring him back.” He lets your head drop back to the floor, standing up and popping his back. “They’re going bring Vantas back to me, and Makara will follow like the worthless bitch he is. He’s the gun, but Vantas? Vantas is the trigger. Tough little fucker, but he won’t last against a couple of highbloods. So chin up—you’ll get to see your little freak buddy within the month, Captor. Isn’t that exciting?”

“So exciting,” you say, flattening your ears. Your stomach turns—you don’t want KK here. You don’t want GZ here. You don’t want any of them here, you don’t want anybody in this  _ hellhole  _ of a place, not anymore. (But a terrible, awful part of you is so, so glad you won’t be alone anymore.) “I’m fucking— _ delighted.”  _

“That’s the spirit,” Noir says, his voice sickeningly cheerful. “Be seeing you, Captor. Our visits always put me in a good mood.”

And here you thought  _ Nuodel  _ was the sadist. You hope Karkat and Gamzee find a way to stay safe. You hope they never come back here. (You hope they come back for  _ you.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for all of your nice comments a;ldgkjf you're all fantastic


	4. coughin' up the nasty shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: gore, body horror, violence, (mentions of) abuse, (mentions of) torture, victim blaming, self-loathing
> 
> chapter track: “hold back the river” by james bay

“—another troll since she was, like, three sweeps old,” John says, scrubbing his toothbrush vigorously across his flat lil’ teeth. “So I think she’s gonna be super nervous to meet you guys, but I also think it’ll be good for her, you know?”

“No, yeah, I feel you, bro,” you say, accidently sorta dripping minty fangpaste all over the sink. Karkat sighs through his own mouthful of foam. “‘orry. Anyway, I’m hype to meet her—love makin’ new friends. Friends are the  _ best.” _

“Heck yeah they are,” John agrees. He rinses his mouth out with water, nudging Karkat over to the side so he can spit into the sink—this teeny-tiny ablutions block, you are coming to learn, is not made for three people, let  _ alone  _ when one of them is as big as you’re gettin’ to be. “What were your friends like? Back in Tontorak?”

“They were  _ awesome,”  _ you say, swishing a mouthful of water to clean your own fangs off and headbutting Karkat to get him out of the way when you need to spit. Brother does like to stand  _ right  _ where you’re needing to be, and he huffs irritably at you when you bump him. Lil’ guy needs a good pappin’, you think. “There was Sollux, and Nepeta, and Equius. Sollux  _ loved  _ computers and shit—he could be real moody, but he was a sweetheart.”

Karkat finally rinses his mouth, stepping back from the sink. “A sweetheart?  _ Sollux?  _ Do we know the same person? He’s an  _ asshole.” _

“Yeah, but you loooove him, you know it,” you tease, nudging him with your elbow. “He’s a good friend. Then there’s Nepeta and Equius—they’re moirails, like me ‘n Karkat. Nepeta loves to hunt and playfight and make these super-neat shipping charts. Equius likes to build robots and break things and also sweat a lot.”

“Assholes, all of them,” Karkat grouches, stomping out of the kitchen and towards the study. Mr. Egbert had told the both of you that you could be puttin’ your pile together there, rearrangin’ however you saw fit, and Karkat seems delighted to have a block of your own. You can’t rightly say you’re not just as thrilled—a space of your own does any troll good, you think. 

“And you love them aaaall,” you insist, ambling after your little palemate with John on your heels. You peek down at John, adding in a lower voice, “He loves them all.”

“I believe you,” John whispers back, and Karkat makes an irritated spitting noise and ducks into the study. The two of you follow behind him, and you decaptchalogue what piling shit you have—a couple pillows, one purple and one red. Karkat lumps them in with the gray blanket and the crab pillow, and then shoves the pile under the desk because it’s cozy and dark there. “So that’s a pile, huh?”

“That’s a pile,” you agree, looking proudly at it. “Usually they’re a little bigger, but we keep movin’ around so much, we ain’t had time to build one up the way we ought.”

“It looks cozy,” John offers, crouching down to peek beneath the desk. “Are you sure you don’t wanna borrow some blankets or something?”

“What, so I can breathe in your gross human stench all night? No thanks,” Karkat says scathingly, peeling off his sweater and decaptchaloguing a clean gray t-shirt. John stands back up just in time to catch a glimpse of your palemate’s back, and you don’t quite understand the squawking noise he makes until your eyes catch on the pale, silver ripples of Karkat’s scars. 

“Karkat what the  _ hell?”  _ John asks, taking a half-step towards him. “What happened? Did  _ both  _ of you get mauled by bears?”

Karkat yanks his clean shirt over his head, glowering over his shoulder. “None of your fucking business, Egbutt.”

“Alright, alright, fine. Keep your nasty lil’ secrets,” John says, raising his hands in surrender. “But you gotta tell me one of these days. I bet it’s an  _ awesome  _ story.”

Karkat snorts, trading his jeans for a pair of shorts before worming his way under the desk and curling up there. The ceiling light flashes off of his eyes for a moment as he peers up at the two of you, turning them into gleaming green discs. John  _ oooohs.  _ “Yeah, just awesome. I love reliving every violent catastrophe that’s ever happened in my shitfest of a life.”

“I bet it’s a fun pastime—it must be time-consuming, though,” John says, grinning down at Karkat, who  _ harrumps  _ and turns his back to the both of you. 

“Aw—you sleepy, bro?” you ask, crouching down to pap his hip. He growls at you. Lil’ fucker’s just  _ asking  _ for a shoosh-papping now, for serious. 

“Well,  _ I  _ am,” John announces, stretching himself out behind you. His shadow arches along the wall. “Some of us aren’t nocturnal, so I’m afraid I’ll have to bid you a fond farewell, my houseguests. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, though?”

“For sure,” you agree, beaming up at him. “And all evening, too.”

“Looking forward to it. G’night, Gamzee—g’niiiiight, Mr. Grumpy Pants.”

Mr. Grumpy Pants growls again, burrowing in amongst your pillows. You laugh and slip under there with him, twisting yourself around to make all your lanky limbs fit—though some of ‘em still stick out from under the desk at all  _ sorts  _ of odd angles. “G’night, Egbro,” you say, and the motherfucker’s kind enough to flick the lights off as he leaves, shutting the study door behind him. You don’t much appreciate all the bright lights humans stick everywhere—makes your eyes hurt more often than not. 

“Mmph—you’re heavy,” Karkat grouches at you, wiggling around until he sighs and gets comfortable again.

“Must be all this motherfuckin’ muscle,” you say, grinning down at him and flexing your arms. He peeks out from behind his hair to glare at you. “Don’t be gettin’ jealous, now.”

He snorts, the glare easing out from his eyes. “Me? Jealous of  _ you?  _ Not in this lifetime, buddy.”

You hum and nuzzle down into his hair, rubbing the crook of your jaw over his horns, getting your claim squared away good and proper. He sighs softly, his eyes fluttering shut. “Karkaaaaat,” you coo softly, bringing a hand up to scratch between his shoulders. He chitters at you, nestling closer, and your chest warms at the affection. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve  _ him,  _ not after what you did to your clade, but you’re so, so grateful he hasn’t left yet. “Karkat, Karkat, Karkaaaat.”

“Mm—what d’you want, dumbass?” he mumbles, cracking an eye open. 

“You tired? Gonna take a nap?”

Karkat pauses, then shakes his head. “No. Don’t wanna fuck up my sleep schedule.” He squints at you. “Why?”

“Well, if a fucker’s not gonna sleep, how’s he feel about gettin’ his jam on?” you ask, sliding your eyes away from his. Your guilt is a knot in your chest, black and cold. He ain’t left you yet, but he should—might be that he will, once he hears your secrets. (You fear his secrets as much as you fear yours, though. What has  _ he  _ been keeping from you?)

Karkat takes a deep breath, going all unhappy-tense beneath you, and you nudge helplessly at the nape of his neck. “We should,” he admits, exhaling slowly. “Let’s wait a little while—make sure the humans are asleep. Then we can jam. Just—listen, sit up. We’ve gotta be sitting up for this.”

Sitting up is a feat which involves shoving your whole pile  _ back  _ out from under the desk and arranging it against the edge, instead. Karkat settled hissself on one side of the pile, hugging his crab pillow to his chest, and you sat yourself down on the opposite side, gettin’ your leaned back against the desk. While you wait to jam (and the longer you wait, the more your stomach twists,  _ fucking hell),  _ Karkat carefully cleans your face of your paint, then sets to rasping his tongue across your wounds. You can’t complain about  _ that,  _ for sure. You just duck your head for him and purr softly, your instincts chuffed with the fact that your palemate is here, and he smells like you, and he’s safe and he’s cleaning the wounds you won defending him (the wounds you won destroying your clade). 

Once he’s cleaned your wounds, he covers them with antibiotic ointment again (icky) and then captchalogues the tube. “There,” he says, satisfied. “How’s your eye feel?”

“Still kinda sore,” you admit, lifting a hand to rub at it until he swats your arm. 

“Stop that. You’re gonna make it worse. Can you see any better?”

You close your good eye and squint at him—dim shapes flutter in front of your vision, but nothing more. You shake your head. “Nah. Gotta give it a few more nights, best friend. It’ll heal right up, don’t you worry none.” Because you did  _ hate  _ that wretched little noise he made when you told at him pupation would do all your healing. You’re determined to heal up faster than all that, for him. 

Karkat grunts, unconvinced, fluttering his fingertips softly beneath your eye. You let it slide shut, lean into the warmth of his touch. He draws back after a moment, and you can’t help but whine at him. “Oh, hush, you giant grub,” he mutters, and you scent his sylladex as he rifles through it. Crack an eye open just in time to see him decaptchalogue a bowl, a bottle of water, and a packet of sopor concentrate. He mixes you up a bowlful of the slime, and you hum happily and set to devouring it.

“Mm—good shit, best friend,” you tell him once you’re done, captchaloguing the bowl yourself and leaning back against the desk. Your stomach feels kinda empty around only one bowl of slime and a single hamburger, but you’ll bide. Ain’t no sense in irritating the dad when you don’t have to. He’s been kinder than he had to be, already—especially givin’ you that cough-syrup shit. 

Karkat had sniffed warily at that medicine bottle for a good five minutes, googling ingredients to make sure you weren’t about to be poisoned, before he’d consented to let you drink it. It was mighty fuckin’ disgusting, and you think you prefer the pills Nuodel gave you, but it  _ had  _ soothed the scratch in your throat some. Makes your chest itch more than usual, though, makes the wet rattle that much more pronounced. Ick. You’re gonna be coughin’ up the nasty shit in your lungs all night. 

About time you figure your Karkat knows  _ why  _ you’ve been coughing so.

“You figure they’re asleep, best friend?” you ask, glancing at the door. “I got a need to tell you some shit. Been keeping too many secrets, the both of us.”

“I know,” Karkat says, his voice quiet. “We both knew, didn’t we? We both knew we were keeping secrets and we both knew it was wrong and we did it anyway.”

You close your eyes, breathe in the clean, warm-spice scent of him. “We did,” you agree, your own voice soft. Feels like confession. Feels like tearing something out to replace it with something better and oh, you are so relieved. “Ain’t gotta do it no more, best friend. Free to tell each other what we ought.”

“I always was.”

You glance at him. His shoulders are hunched, his ears pressed flat in his shame. “How’s that?” you prompt, gentle as you can.

“I was always free to tell you,” he murmurs. “I just—didn’t.”

Ah. That hurts, some. You breathe through it. “But you’ll tell me now.”

“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, flexes his claws. “I’m—sorry, first of all. I’m sorry for not telling you. I was a coward, and I was—ashamed.” You open your mouth to protest, but he holds a hand up, silencing you. “Listen. I can’t—fuck, I don’t think I can do this unless I get it out all at once.”

“Okay, best friend,” you whisper, and then you listen.

“So I’m—sorry, for not telling you. I should have. You’re my palemate, and what I did, it—it should have affected both of us.” He takes another deep, slow breath, then decaptchalogues something into his palm. His fingers close snug around it before you can see what it is. “In Tontorak, a little bit after we first got there—you remember when I got hurt?”

His free hand touches his back, the soft cloth over his scars. How could you ever forget?

“I told you that I wanted to fight that purpleblood. Finrel. I said Noir helped me. That’s—not exactly true.” He winces down on himself, holds his closed fist close to his heart and you ache with fear. “That was the time Noir told me they were going to take you away from me, when you started going through withdrawals. He thought I wouldn’t be able to handle you. I thought I could, so we made a deal. There was this purpleblood—she’d gone mad, killed her own palemate, but Noir didn’t want to lose her if he didn’t have to. He told me that if I could—if I could—” 

You see his fangs dig into his own lip. Your breath comes shorter.

“—that if I could soothe her, then I could soothe you.” It comes out in a gust of air, and once the words have left him, Karkat hunches in on himself and whines like he’s been hit. You don’t touch him. You can’t. He plows forward, rushing on like he’s got to convince you before you up and abandon him. “He said if I could soothe her then he’d let me have you, he’d let me take care of you, and I wanted—I needed to know if I  _ could  _ soothe you, or at least—at least a highblood in a rage, because if I couldn’t soothe you then he said they’d  _ kill  _ you, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t take that risk but I didn’t want them to take you from me, either, and  _ fuck,  _ I know it was selfish but I—I—”

He’s gasping, now, hugging his arms around his waist. He thrusts his closed fist out to you, opens his fingers and drops something on the floor. It’s Finrel’s fang—smooth and curved and just as fresh-white as it had been the day you yanked it from her jaw.

“And then I killed her. I killed her, but I shooshed her first, Gamzee. I cheated on you—I went behind your back and I fucking  _ cheated  _ on you, and then I  _ murdered  _ a defenseless troll—and I’m  _ sorry,  _ I know that doesn’t change anything but I am, I’m so sorry, Gam, I’m so  _ fucking  _ sorry—”

He looks at you, then, shoulders curved in like you’re set to attack him. His eyes are glossy with the palest red tears you’ve ever goddamn seen, his ears back and his lip wobbling. Fuck if he isn’t the most pitiful motherfucker you’ve ever seen.

...your lungs sting.

“Show me,” you say. Your voice sounds far-away, distant. “Show me, Karkat.”

“I don’t—”

You squeeze your eyes shut and curl yourself around the link in your head. It trembles against you, and after a moment, it unfolds. Karkat’s guilt slams into you—a wall of black storm clouds, bitter and sour and cold. You gasp and shudder, pulling your knees to your chest against the onslaught. You feel Karkat start to draw back, but you tighten your grip on your link.  _ Show me,  _ you plead.  _ Brother you don’t know what you’re saying, it can’t be true can’t be that way  _ show me—

And so he does.

His memory unfolds around you, tinged with old fear and fresh guilt. You see Noir’s face, smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes, and you—

(You are small and warm and when you look up, there’s a human adult standing above you. He’s threatening to take your palemate away from you—your palemate your responsibility your Gamzee—but he’s offering you an alternative. 

“See, it’s that kind of attitude that’s kept Gamzee on sopor so long. You need more confidence, Vantas. This will help you. This will help Gamzee. Don’t you want that? Don’t you love him?”

How dare he, how dare he question your love for your palemate how dare—

“Then this should be an easy choice for you. Don’t you want to try?”

Of course you do! Of course you want to try taking care of him, but this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be, this is wrong—he’ll never forgive you if you do this, if you go behind his back like this. Obviously you want to try soothing a highblood, but there’s only one highblood you ever want to try that with, and he’s not here right now. You start to tell Noir as much, but he’s shoving you forward before you get the full sentence out—shoving you forward, into dark and decay and burning red eyes.

“Try away, little Vantas.”

Oh shit oh fuck oh shit—

An awful mess of a highblood crouches in the corner, skin slicked with blood. There’s another dead troll in the corner. You are sick with fear. You are six sweeps old, you have been locked in a room with an enraged subjugglator, and you are going to die. Your fear is a raw, writhing thing in your throat. It itches in your claws, your fangs. 

The adult springs at you, snarling, and you scramble desperately away from her. You are trapped, you are so trapped, holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck this is not the way you wanted your night to go at all. You reach for your sickle and she slams you against the wall, cold breath and sticky blood, and you quail.

And she? Well. She pauses.

Hope flashes through the black storm of your fear—if you can soothe her, maybe you can survive. Maybe you can actually do this. (Maybe you can have Gamzee after all.) 

The thing is, you don’t want to. You don’t want to touch this highblood like that, soft and sweet and caring. You want Gamzee. You’ve only ever wanted Gamzee. So you squeeze your eyes shut, and you pretend.

And then she tears you apart, and you are screaming, reaching, struggling towards the one thing that’s always protected you—Gamzee, Gamzee, Gamzee—!

Something blooms in your head, through the pain. When you come back to yourself, you will pass it off as a figment of your petrified imagination and your agony. In the moment, though, it feels like something new—something new and powerful, something that unfurls from deep within your chest and wraps itself around your palemate and screams for him. 

It feels like a link.)

You jolt out of the memory gasping, your vision fragmented through your tears. Across from you, Karkat doesn’t look much better—he’s hunched over, his arms curled around his stomach (he makes himself sick, makes himself sick with his guilt, you can still  _ feel  _ it and you cut the link off with a hiss). His eyes snap up to you, fat pink tears rollin’ down his precious face, and you? 

Ah, you do somethin’ kinda stupid.

You roll back your jaw and you  _ snarl  _ at him, quiet but real serious, because he’s hurtin’ your palemate and the link’s got you all mixed up about it. His ears flick at you, eyes widening, and then he shrinks into himself. Thinks it a rejection, no doubt—thinks you to be angry at him, and you  _ are,  _ but not for what reasons he suspects. (Gotta get rid of that anger, though. Gotta get rid of it fast.) 

“You didn’t want to, best friend,” you tell him, your voice low, and his breath does a funny little hitch. “Didn’t want that shit. Noir forced it on—ain’t your fault in the least and I ain’t mad about what you did to keep yourself alive for me.”

His head jerks up, claws curling into his palms. “But I—”

“I’d rather you shooshed a hundred highbloods then let one kill you,” you snap. Anger seethes in your chest and you recoil from it. Shouldn’t be mad, you shouldn’t be mad, you  _ shouldn’t.  _ “Shouldn’t that be obvious? What? You thought I’d be pissed at you for staying alive? Thought I’d  _ break up  _ with you over somethin’ you couldn’t control?”

“No,  _ no,”  _ Karkat says, leaning forward. You breathe through your anger, try desperately to clamp it back down. Anger is  _ bad,  _ it’s so fucking  _ bad.  _ Sopor’s helping you claw it back down, thank messiahs, but your hands still tremble with it. “It wasn’t because of you, I swear. It was because of  _ me.  _ Because I—I  _ agreed,  _ don’t you get it? I  _ thought  _ about it before he ever put me in that room, I thought about cheating on you, I thought it was a  _ good idea—” _

You breathe in through your teeth, hard enough it whistles, and then you breathe out and—whoosh. Your anger is gone. All that’s left is a sad, terrified little husk of emotion. “Karkat. Karkat, motherfucker, we both know you’re awful dumb sometimes.” Not an insult, not the way you mean it, just goddamn  _ truth.  _ Your palemate just don’t  _ think  _ half the time. “Awful motherfuckin’ impulsive. Can’t fault you for that.”

“What?” Karkat demands, his voice all cracking through his tears. “Yes you can, of course you can—”

“Well I don’t motherfuckin’  _ want  _ to,” you say, your voice sulkier, maybe, then it rightly should be. Shit’s true, though. You don’t want to fault him for anything, because if you do—if you do, you’ll have cause to be angry, and that ain’t a cause you want. (Because being angry means being awful and terrible and wicked, being angry means  _ hurting  _ people and you ain’t ever wanna feel that way around anybody ever again, let alone your softest miracle.)

And Karkat has the nerve to  _ glare  _ at you for it, his lower lip wobbling. Messiahs, that’s practically a pout. “Why the fuck not? I deserve it. I deserve—”

“You deserve my love and care, little brother, and you’ll have that and nothing else,” you insist, leaning forward to push your forehead against his. He pushes back, little fists balled up angry at his sides. “So hush up, already. It wasn’t your fault and I ain’t gonna place the blame on you. I forgive you, best friend, if that’s what you need to hear. There’s not a single thing to forgive but I forgive you any-fucking-way, you got it? So you don’t need to be feelin’ guilty anymore.”

Karkat curls his claws into your shirt, squeezes his eyes shut. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, wipe away damp tear-trails with the pad of your thumb. “I feel guilty anyway,” he whispers, a confession breathed into the soft space between the two of you. “What I did, you shouldn’t—you should be upset. Why aren’t you upset with me?” Sounds almost pleading—could break your heart, if you let it. 

“Because I love you.” Because you fear your own anger more than you fear most anything else.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. Shh, I know.” You pull him against your chest, rock him slow, set your chin between his horns. Been a while since he’s let you at those little nubs—been a long, long while. You are so tired and you feel so sick. Your breath rattles in your lungs. Karkat slides a hand up, rests it over your heart. “All’s well, little one. You don’t have to feel bad anymore. I know. I see you, brother, see you well and truly and find no fault.”

Karkat sniffles, buries his face against your throat. You feel the heat of his tears like a brand against your skin. “And it didn’t—it didn’t even matter,” he rasps. “What I did. It didn’t ever matter, because I couldn’t take care of you anyway. They took you away from me and everything—everything got worse. They ruined you. What’d they do? What’d they do to you, that you couldn’t tell me?”

“I told you most of it, little brother,” you say, as though that could erase the stain of what secrets you did keep. “The training—none of that was a lie. Just—omitted some shit. Nuodel, that first day we trained, she—” You take a deep breath, squeeze your eyes shut and hold him close—feel him alive and breathing and safe in your arms. “She told me we couldn’t leave. She told me if we tried, she’d kill you, and brother I knew she could, I knew she  _ would  _ and I wouldn’t be able to stop her.”

“Oh.” Best friend sounds like you’ve knocked the breath out of him. “Oh. That’s—why you always wanted to stay.”

“Wanted?” You laugh, crackly and strained. “Wanted, oh, brother, I never  _ wanted.  _ I’d have torn the both of us out of there that first perigee, if I thought I could do it and keep you alive. That place was a  _ shithole.  _ I hated it. I hated every goddamn second I spent with that bitch. But I wasn’t strong enough to fight her, Karkat. I never was. So I just let her keep—keep fucking  _ hurting  _ us, and I didn’t move a goddamn finger to protect you the way I should’ve.”

Karkat is silent in your arms, trembling.

“But I thought—I thought maybe it was okay,” you continue, in a rush to make him understand your sin. “I thought—we had food, and drink, and shelter, and friends, and I thought that was enough. I thought that made it worth it. You only ever got hurt the one time—and one too many times, I know it well—but I didn’t ever think they’d hurt you again, and they didn’t. Right? They didn’t hurt you, little brother?”

Karkat shakes his head, mute.

“And I know they took your blood, but you seemed alright with that. Didn’t make you ill, as such that I could tell. If I’d thought—if I’d thought for a  _ second,  _ Karkat, that they were hurting you, we would have been gone that very night. And it wasn’t so bad, was it? You weren’t miserable? I know sometimes you wanted to leave, but I always thought that was on my account, not on yours—tell me I’m right, brother, please. Tell me it was okay.” 

You’re begging, and you know you shouldn’t. His forgiveness is not something you should plead for. He must bestow it honestly or it’s worthless to you, and even so, you find yourself groveling. You press urgent, messy kisses to his face (he’s crying, oh, your littlest brother is still crying) and his hair and his horns, breathe shattered fragments of prayers you’re not sure you believe in, anymore. Messiahs, please, oh, please, you didn’t mean to hurt your Karkat, you didn’t mean to make him stay if it was hurting him—

“Please. Please, Karkat, messiahs,  _ please,  _ tell me it was okay, tell me it didn’t ruin us—tell me we’ll be okay, please, motherfucker,  _ please  _ tell me we’re gonna be okay—”

Karkat’s little hands touch your chest, your neck, your face. “We’re gonna be okay,” he says, his voice cracking. “Yeah. Of course. Why the fuck wouldn’t we be, you giant fuck-up?”

“Because I  _ lied,  _ because I didn’t tell you, brother, didn’t tell you what she  _ did,  _ I made you stay even though you didn’t want to—”

“Shh, shh.” His fingers brush across the arches of your cheek, rough little coals searing your skin. “You didn’t lie. You just—didn’t tell the truth. I did the same thing, okay? So it’s not—it’s not okay, but at least we can be not okay together. And it wasn’t  _ bad.  _ I wasn’t miserable there. You’re right. It was comfortable, it was safe, we had our clade. It wasn’t bad, not for me—but it fucking  _ sucked  _ for you. It’s my fault. I should’ve pushed harder, I should’ve made you leave anyway—”

“No.” You shake your head vehemently. “No, brother, I’d have stayed a thousand years there if it meant keeping you safe—”

“Which is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you stay even one,” Karkat growls, butting his forehead against yours—it’s not a gentle headbutt, either. “You  _ fucker.  _ You’re one to talk about  _ martyrdom—” _

“Learned from the best, little brother,” you say, which is maybe a little bit of a low blow, but hell, ain’t like it’s not the  _ truth.  _ He bares his teeth and shoves his head forward, drives your back, and if it’s a hornlock he wants, a hornlock he will motherfucking  _ get.  _ You huff and push back at him, and he snaps his teeth at you. 

“I let them  _ ruin  _ you,” he hisses, lifting his hand to curl his claws over your lungs. “If I had gotten you out of there, you never would’ve hurt Equius the way you did.”

“You can’t be sure of that. Might be that I wouldn’t have had the chance, but violence runs deep in my blood, brother—you know that. It’s part of who I am.”

_ “No.” _

“Motherfucker,  _ yes it is.  _ I am a motherfucking  _ monster  _ without the sopor, and you’ve seen that as well as I have.”

“You’re not a—!”

“You know what the voices tell me to do, Karkat?” you demand, voice real soft. You lift your hand, cup his cheek, press your forehead hard against his. You hate scaring him, but you’d rather have him scared than hurt, for fucking sure. “You know what they say to mel the things I should do at you, when I’m sober and I hear them  _ loud and motherfucking clear? _ ”

“Fuck, no, I don’t, you—”

“They tell me to kill you,” you say, almost dreamy with the bright horror of it. You trace your claws beneath his eyes, the soft skin at the crook of his jaw. “They tell me to pluck your eyes out, pop ‘em between my teeth, swallow all that hot red blood. Tell me to slit your throat, tear your veins and arteries out and weave ‘em into tightropes fit for the fiercest carnival. Pull out your guts, hang ‘em like lights around the block. Flay your skin off your back, yank your teeth out and string ‘em on that pretty necklace you bought me. Cut your horns right out your skull and mount ‘em on the wall like the trophies they are.”

You could make yourself sick, thinking on that unholy shit. Karkat’s face gets paler as you speak, his jaw clenching and the muscles in his neck loosening, letting you push his head back. He doesn’t lift it to meet you again. Sits there instead, head down, horns held off to the side, claws digging into your pile. You lean forward, press your forehead to his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t ever do it,” you whisper. “Not as long as I was me, best friend. But off soper, I don’t feel like me, and for that, I’m sorry. I’m so motherfuckin’ sorry. I wish it weren’t so—wish it more than anything, but that place didn’t ruin me. I was born ruined, born of rot and ruin and decay, and not a thing can fix it.”

“I’m sorry too,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I can’t fix it.”

“Me too.” You close your eyes, breathe out. Your lungs ache and itch, and you draw back to cough into your elbow—brother does get real salty at you if you cough anywhere else, as you’ve learned well in this last year of shitty lungs. “But it ain’t your fault. Ain’t nobody’s fault but the messiahs. Their will be motherfuckin’ done. What a joke.”

“What a shitty fucking joke,” Karkat agrees, carefully wrapping his arms around your neck and hugging you close. You are so relieved. You are so  _ motherfucking  _ relieved that you can still have this, still have him, despite all your shitty secrets. “Was there anything else—any other secrets, before I flip my shit completely?”

Your mouth twists. “Ah—just one,” you admit. Best to tear it all out at once. “The water—ain’t scared of it because of the old goat, not really.”

Karkat goes real still again, the only thing movin’ being his hand through your short mess of curls. 

“‘s ‘cause of Nuodel, that bitch.” You grind your teeth—breathe through the anger, push it back down where it belongs. “You recall when I’d be gone most of a night? Those were the nights I went swimmin’. Wasn’t so bad, at first. They had this big, deep pool back in the training rooms. Could swim in that fucker for  _ hours.  _ Only thing is, it didn’t matter how long a fucker swam—you could swim and swim and swim all night, all week, all fuckin’ year and you’d still not get anywhere. You’d be motherfuckin’  _ trapped,  _ and you wouldn’t get out ‘till Nuodel decided you would.” 

You hunch your shoulders. Karkat’s hand has stopped moving through your hair. “Thing is, she liked to wait. Liked to wait ‘till you went under, ‘till you felt that big swell of death-fear and got the water in your lungs. Sadistic shit, huh? Guess that’s what you get, bein’ a monster with nothin’ to soften you up. So that’s what all the cough is for.” You rub the heel of your hand against your lungs. “Not a seadweller, me, though ‘m closer than most. Guess that’s why it’s nothin’ worse than a cough, even after all that water. Nuodel said it was some kinda infection—she had pills and shit to keep it from gettin’ too bad. All that drownin’ did inspire some kinda fear, though, best friend.”

Karkat takes a deep, shuddering breath. Lets it out on a long, low whine and you pull back to look at him in concern. He’s stopped crying, but there’s a sort of desperate horror in his eyes you ain’t seen before. He draws back from you, and you gotta let him go—ain’t a thing in you that can force your will over his, though you call after him. “Karkat? Karkat, motherfucker? I’m sorry—shit, I shouldn’t have said anything. Come back, please—Karkat, hey,  _ please—” _

Karkat staggers to his feet, breathing in wheezy little gulps. He falls to pacing—back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. His claws curl and uncurl at his sides, his head dipped like he’s showing horns at a threat. You don’t rise up onto your own feet, not yet—let him settle down, let him come to you when he’s ready, don’t ever rush, because rushing is too close to forcing is too close to threatening is too close to hurting. 

“You’re telling me,” he chokes out, finally, his voice strained like he’s trying real fuckin’ hard to keep himself quiet. “You’re telling me that Nuodel  _ tortured  _ you for a year, and you stayed just to keep  _ me  _ safe? Am I hearing this right?”

You roll that over in your head, thinkin’ it through for a few seconds. “Well,” you start, hesitating, “wouldn’t call it  _ torture,  _ exactly. Was most unpleasant, but it was training—normal subjugglator training, even. Would’ve done the same thing if I’d joined the fleet on Alternia.”

Karkat sucks in another breath, his hands shaking. You expect to see fear in him, when he whips around—but when his eyes fix on you, they’re full of rage, burning him up from the inside out. This time  _ he’s  _ the one who snarls at  _ you,  _ his claws curving. Ducks his head to show you the tips of his horns, stomps a foot like a pissed-off little highblood at a rowdy subordinate. 

“How  _ dare  _ you,” he hisses. Brother, at least, has no fear of his anger. His eyes gleam red around the edges. “How dare you keep something like that from me. Fuck! I know that makes me a goddamned hypocrite, but do you see all the fucks I give? None! None of the fucks!” He’s getting louder in his fury, but he glances at the door and gnashes his teeth and quiets some.  _ “How dare you.  _ We’re  _ moirails.  _ I’m supposed to  _ protect  _ you—”

“And I’m supposed to protect  _ you,”  _ you argue, though you’re shrinking down into yourself. Hell, you know you’re in the wrong, but that don’t stop you from trying to justify yourself, just a little fuckin’ bit. “If I’d have told you, you’d have wanted to leave, and I done  _ said  _ already, if we’d motherfuckin’ tried to leave Nuodel would’ve killed us.”

“Oh?  _ Oh?”  _ Karkat spreads his arms, his chest heaving. “She’d kill us if we left?  _ Look where the fuck we are right now,  _ you fucking dumbass _ — _ we’re both perfectly alive and  _ away from that bitch!  _ And you know what? Leaving was  _ easy.  _ We could have left  _ perigees  _ ago if you had only  _ told me—” _

You curl into yourself, guilt and shame lashing at the backs of your ribs like whips. “I thought—I didn’t think we could.” Because you were a coward, a goddamn fucking coward. “I thought for sure—she was always so much stronger, brother, so much more in control than us, it never seemed possible that we could get away without bein’ harmed—”

“So you trusted Nuodel more than you trusted me,” Karkat says, his voice suddenly flat, and fuck if that ain’t worse than when he’s snarlin’ at you.

You press your chin to your shoulder, keep your horns turned from him, show him the side of your throat in an attempt to appease. “I’m sorry,” you say, your voice ragged. Shit. Your eyes sting. “I’m sorry, little brother. I just wanted to take care of you, I just wanted to keep you  _ safe—” _

Karkat snarls, the sound rolling from low in his chest—sounds like a troll about to fling himself on you, tear your skin from your back. (You’d let him.) “And what am  _ I  _ for, huh? I’m supposed to keep you safe too, you piece of shit! I’m already a worthless enough moirail—I can’t soothe you like I supposed to, and now you’ve taken  _ this  _ from me, too? Fuck you!”

“What? No, brother, no, you ain’t worthless at all, don’t  _ say  _ that—”

“I don’t  _ do anything for you,”  _ he says, bristling. “The only— _ fuck,  _ the only pale thing I  _ ever  _ do in this relationship is make you feel good. And that’s great, fuck, that’s awesome,  _ but it’s not all a moirallegiance is about.  _ Fucking hell, it’s not even  _ most  _ of what a moirallegiance is about.

“That ain’t true!” you protest, pinning your ears. “Ain’t true at all, brother. You do a motherfuckin’ lot more than that—we jam, don’t we? You help figure out all my shit—”

“Apparently not all of it. Apparently not even  _ most  _ of it.” Karkat snaps his jaws again, crushing the air between his teeth, and your anger tries to flicker to life again. How  _ dare  _ he be mad at you for this. How  _ dare  _ he think to be upset because you  _ did something for him— _

And then Karkat kinda—deflates, all of a sudden. He crouches with his back against the wall, pulls his legs up to his chest, buries his face against his knees and moans like he’s been hurt somethin’ fierce. Your anger crashes down again, leaves you with nothing but a sort of confused distress, because you—you did it for  _ him.  _ You wanted to keep him safe. You didn’t think he’d be happy, but does he have to be so  _ mad?  _

“Karkat?” you try, your voice soft. “I’m sorry. I really am. I would’ve told you right off, but I couldn’t—couldn’t even think on you dying, brother. Couldn’t take that chance, no matter how small it might’ve been. Maybe it’s ‘cause I’m a coward. Hell,  _ probably  _ it’s because I was a coward. Couldn’t risk you, brother. Not for anything.”

Karkat takes a deep, shuddering breath. You make at him what apology you can—inch towards him, lay yourself out on your back and show him your belly, your throat. Drop your ears and whine quietly at him on each exhale. Eventually he looks up at you over his knees, his eyes dark and tired and hopeless. Your little whines grow louder.

“You really think I’m that weak?” he asks softly. “That I need you to protect me from everything?”

You open your mouth to deny it, and then close it again because—well. Maybe you ain’t never thought it in such terms (never thought of Karkat as  _ weak,  _ only as  _ soft  _ and  _ littlest  _ and  _ yours  _ and maybe sometimes that’s the same thing). “Not weak,” you say, glancing away from him. “Not in ways that it matters. You’ve got a stronger heart than I by far, little brother, and stronger morals to go with it. But—” You chew your lip. “You are awful small, and you ain’t stronger than a midblood, I figure, and you don’t have any psychics what to protect your pan—and I ain’t sayin’ that’s a bad thing, but you’re just—just—”

“A lowblood,” Karkat says quietly. 

You wince but don’t protest it. Don’t got much fondness for the term, but—“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be casist, brother.”

“No, it’s—fine. Yeah.” Karkat doesn’t sound like it’s fine, you think. “It’s true.”

“But you’re not weak in ways that matter,” you insist. “Know that, Karkat.”

Karkat is quiet for a minute. Then he reaches out, touches the tip of your horn. “We’re fucked up.”

“Figure that’s so,” you agree, glancing back at him. He keeps on watching you over the shield of his knees, his fingers petting the top of your horn. “But fucked up can be fixed, best friend.”

He’s quiet again, then gets up and takes a seat in the pile again. Opens his arms for you, and relief is the crest of a cold wave in your chest. “C’mere,” he says, and you can do nothing but obey. You sink into his lap, let him wrap his arms around you and hold you close. He rocks you slowly, burrows his nose into your hair so you can feel the warm puffs of his breath. “I’m sorry I got shouted. I’m still—fucking  _ pissed,  _ though. Don’t ever do that again. I don’t need you to suffer because of me.”

“I did it gladly,” you say, honest. “For you, I’d suffer anything.”

“I know.” Voice sounds hollow. “Please don’t. Please.  _ Please.” _

You don’t promise him that—you can’t. Know yourself well enough to know that, at least. “Okay,” you say, instead, because at least a little lie is better than a broken promise. “Okay, best friend. Whatever you want.”

He takes a deep, shivery breath. “I’m sorry, Gamzee. I’m so sorry she hurt you that way. That must’ve been awful.” His tongue rasps through your hair, looking for an injury to staunch. “So fucking—sadistic, god, fuck. I hate her. I  _ hate  _ her.”

You growl softly in agreement, then tilt your head back to bite beneath his chin because you have a goddamn  _ need  _ to feel his claim, to feel that he hasn’t left you for what terrible secrets you kept. He obligingly nuzzles the crook of his jaw over your hair, your forehead, your ears, the bases of your horns. His scent surrounds you, warm and grounding and familiar. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, nuzzling up against the middle of one horn. “About—fuck, about drowning every night for the last year?”

“Weren’t every night,” you assure him, papping his hip gently. “No more than twice a perigee, really. And I’m a motherfucking  _ badass  _ swimmer now, best friend, you best believe it.”

He laughs, all choked-up and watery. “Yeah? Go fucking figure. You’re a badass swimmer and you’re afraid of fucking  _ water.” _

“Messiahs’ jokes,” you tell him. He groans against your scalp, sends little tremors through the bases of your horns. “I’m sure as fuck glad we’re gone, though, beloved. Glad we made what choices we did to get us here.”

Karkat hums, threading his fingers through your hair. Glides his claws along your scalp in tiny circles, crooked diamonds. “Me too. Although I’m—worried about Sollux,” he admits. “He hasn’t trolled me since this morning.”

“We can try trolling him again tomorrow,” you murmur, nosing into his neck. “I want you right now.” Selfish shit, maybe, but you are tired and stressed as hell and still processing the last half-hour. You don’t want to be doing that shit alone. 

“I know.” He kisses your forehead, hugs you tightly. “I’m here. You’ve got me.”

You chirp, weary but pleased with this, and mouth at his chin until he consents to mark you again. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of feeling like his, feeling like you  _ belong,  _ like somebody actually wants you. 

“So  _ do  _ you want to talk about it?” he asks again, rubbing the pads of his fingers slowly against the nape of your neck. You lean your head forward to give his miraculous little hands more room to work, humming quietly. 

“Nah,” you say, after a second to mull it over. “Not yet.”

“We’re gonna have to at some point.”

“I know. I just—got a lot to get sorted out in my head, you know?” you ask, looking guilty at him. “All your shit and my shit combined, I gotta get it squared away proper.”

“Oh—hell, that makes sense.” He squirms down in the pile, and you squirm with him, ‘till you’re both curled up facing each other. You tangle your legs, and he reaches out to hold your hands in his, rubbing his cheek against your knuckles. “Let the squaring commence.”

“Commenced, brother,” you inform him solemnly, leaning forward to kiss his cute-ass nose. The two of you spend most of the next few hours just curled up together, resting and thinking your separate thoughts. Karkat asks a question, occasionally—do you need more pills for your lungs? (Probably, but you tell him the cough syrup’ll do you fine.) Did Nuodel ever do anything  _ else  _ that bad to you? (No—not unless you count taking you away from your Karkat. You  _ do  _ tell him your knee wasn’t exactly a training accident, though, and that sets him burning and baring his teeth again, until you pap him down.) 

You ask him questions, too, when you get the chance. Does he still feel guilty about Finrel? (Yes, he does—and you hate that he does, but you know that’s not something that can be fixed in a single jam. You can be patient. For your little brother, you can be most anything.) Did Noir ever do anything else to hurt him so? (No—mostly, Noir ignored him, for which you’re grateful.) Does him shooshing Finrel have anything to do with him still not letting you at his horns, letting you get him all softened down the way you miss so terribly? (No, he tells you. No, no, that’s not it. You gotta wonder what  _ is.) _

“Can we try now?” you risk asking, a couple hours before dawn. For a second, you think maybe you’re gonna get to—thank  _ messiahs— _ but then hunches his shoulders down, ducks his head. 

“I—not yet?” he says—soft, guilty. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I know it’s been forever, I just—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, best beloved,” you soothe, kissing the tip of one rounded horn. “It’s okay, no need to fret yourself. I can bide. And hell, even if I never get to put you under again, it’s alright. There’s a million ways to make you feel good, best friend, and that’s but one of them. I’d not complain if I had to get my experience on of the other nine-hundred-some thousand.” 

He huffs at you all embarrassed, but he nuzzles up against your throat and you take that invitation for what it is—you scratch your claws gently across his back, and he arches and shivers and you see goosebumps ripple across his skin. You touch him soft and slow, hands over his hair and his face and his shoulders, and he touches you back like you’re made of shit incorporeal—lightest little touches of his claws against your cheek, your chest, ‘round the bases of your horns. 

Karkat don’t put you under, though, and for that you’re grateful. You need time to think. Mind’s still got itself churned up something fierce, and you figure it’ll take a good, long while to settle down again. It’s okay, though. It’ll be okay. You and Karkat, you’ll be okay. You know it, certain as the sun in the sky. He’s yours, and you’re his, and you’re gonna be okay.

* * *

The door to the inquisition room bangs open a few hours into your drifting, bloody dreams. You jerk awake on a snarl, already bristling. “Good  _ morning,  _ little Captor,” Nuodel says in an abhorrently cheerful voice. “What the fuck is up?”

You groan and curl up tighter, burying your face into the crook of your arm. The light from the outside stings your eyes. Nuodel nudges you with the toe of her boot. “The fuck do you want this time?” you hiss, pinning your ears. One would think she’d had her fill of abuse for the night, but  _ a-fucking-las.  _

“We’re going on a roadtrip, so up and at ‘em, sunshine.” She reaches down, sinks her claws into the collar of your shirt and hauls you to your feet. You waver there, your legs weak and sore, until she tugs you outside of the room. You stumble along behind her, each step sending little jolts of pain through your body. “Got a long day ahead of us, unfortunately. It’s a bit of a drive.”

“Where?” you ask, slurring hatefully around all the gaps of your missing teeth. 

“The Sonoran Desert. It’s about time you saw the fruits of your labor, isn’t it?”

You squint at her, utterly confused but too goddamn tired to give a shit about it.

“The purplebloods,” Nuodel graciously explains, patting you between the horns. “The ones what you brought down from space with your stellar hacking. They’ve been here a while already—a perigee, nearabout. They’re adapting well, so I figure it’s about time we paid them a little  _ visit.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh jeez oh it's been a while im so sorry a;slkjg but since im on good ole corona quarantine i should have more time to work on my fics so! hopefully updates will come quicker !! thank you all for your patience !!!


	5. take the damn cricket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: brief violence, captivity, threats
> 
> chapter track: “a morning song” by miner

“—it’s going to be  _ fine,  _ I promise,” you say, looking earnestly at Terezi. She worries at her lip with her fangs, tapping her cane anxiously against the driveway as she steps out of your dad’s car. Rose sets a hand on her shoulder, murmuring something too soft for you to hear. “They’re not scary at all—Gamzee is like a giant teddy bear, and Karkat’s basically a hedgehog. He’s all spiky on the outside, but on the inside he’s all fluffy and warm and squishy.”

“I’m not  _ scared,”  _ Terezi says, frowning. Her knuckles are blanched from her grip on the head of her cane, but you pretend not to notice this. It’s not often Terezi is uncertain of anything, but you can suppose you can understand why she’s nervous about this—if she’s told you the truth, she hasn’t seen another troll since she left Alternia when she was three sweeps old. They’re as alien to her as they are to you. “If I don’t like them, I’ll just beat them up. Easy. That’s how trolls do things.”

“Is it?” Rose asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Hell if I know.” Terezi scowls, striding forward briskly, her cane tap-tap-tapping along the driveway as she follows your dad into the house. “Come on. Let’s go meet these miserable little urchins John has so magnanimously decided to house.”

The three of you enter the house—Terezi drifts behind you as you near the porch, letting you take the lead, which is something she seldom does. You take your responsibility as friendleader Very Seriously, and you’re determined that tonight is going to be  _ totally awesome  _ for all of your friends. When you step into the living room, Karkat glances up at you from his spot on the couch. He’s stiffer than a wooden board, and gets even stiffer when he sees your little group, but you fling yourself down next to him anyway.

“Hiya, Karkat,” you say, bumping your head against his. You point to each of your friends in turn, beaming. “These are my friends—Rose Lalonde and Terezi Pyrope. Rose, Terezi, this is Karkat Vantas.”

“Hi,” Karkat says—he  _ sounds  _ like he’s trying to be friendly, at least, although there’s a wary gleam in his eyes. Terezi peeks out from over Rose’s shoulder, her ears flicking uncertainly. “Nice to meet you.”

“And Gamzee iiiiiis—uh, where’s Gamzee?” you ask, peering around the room, as though there’s any way the lanky beast could hide from you here. (There’s not. He is a very sizeable fellow.) 

“Ablutions—bathroom,” Karkat tells you, curling up tighter as Rose takes a seat beside you on the couch. Terezi hesitates, shifting her weight. Her nostrils flare, and you hear her snuffle briefly at the air. Beside you, Karkat does the same, angling his head off to the side as he does. “Wanted to make sure his paint was perfect for our guests, not that they give a shit.”

“Paint?” Terezi asks, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. 

“Yeah.” Karkat flattens his ears briefly, and oh no oh no oh no you don’t want them to get off the wrong foot—“That a problem,  _ Pyrope?” _

Terezi sniffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Of course not,  _ Mr. Vantas.  _ Why would it be?”

Karkat makes a little harrumphing sound, but he slumps back into the couch, and you feel a wash of relief. Terezi seems to relax, too—her shoulders drop some, and she starts to pad towards the couch. You have  _ no idea  _ how you’re going to fit five teenagers (one of whom is starting to edge up into the six-foot range, discounting his horns) onto this tiny couch, but  _ by god  _ are you going to try. You move to shuffle closer to Karkat, but as you do, you hear the bathroom door creak open. 

Terezi freezes, eyes whipping up to the second floor (not that it does her any good). She goes rigid again, nostrils flaring as she scents the air, her fingers curling at her sides. Beside you, Karkat stiffens, and you feel (though you can’t hear it, quite yet) a soft, dangerous rattle rumble through his chest. Terezi flicks an ear in his direction, but otherwise, her attention stays focused on Gamzee, who ambles down the stairs, humming cheerfully. He brightens when his eyes land on your friends, a grin spreading across his immaculately-painted face.

“Oh—hi there, John’s little friends,” he says, padding towards your group once he reaches the first floor. He’s more slouched over than usual (which is saying something, to be quite honest). You expect him to stop before he reaches Terezi, but instead, he blunders right into her personal space. She’s almost as board-like as Karkat, now, her back rigidly straight and her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow little breaths. “What the fuck is up?”

“Hi, Gamzee,” you say, leaning forward—there’s a nervous flutter in your stomach as he leans down towards Terezi, snuffling loudly. “That’s Terezi Pyrope, and this is Rose Lalonde. Guys, this is Gamzee Makara.” Then, in a quiet aside to Karkat, you ask, “Hey, is what Gamzee’s doing...normal?”

“Hm?” Karkat asks, flicking an ear in your direction—he’s all eyes for Gamzee and Terezi, although he doesn’t look alarmed, which you  _ think  _ is a good sign. “Oh, yeah, probably not. He has no sense of social boundaries.”

“Should we—I dunno, stop him?”

Karkat cocks his head, then grins—a vicious slice of a thing, completely uncomforting. “Nah. He’s just teaching Pyrope not to be so afraid of clowns.”

Terezi does  _ not  _ look like this is what she’s learning. She doesn’t step back from Gamzee, although she does lean away, her ears pressed flat against her head. She licks her teeth nervously as he snuffles around her hair and horns. After a second, he makes one of those cute little sounds he uses whenever he greets you after school—a soft, rapid little chuff of air. Terezi’s eyes widen, her ears flicking forward. You’ve never heard  _ her  _ make that sound before, but—hey, look at that, she can! It’s softer than Gamzee’s, rough with disuse, but still recognizable. Gamzee beams at the noise, drawing back to lean towards Rose, next.

“I would rather you didn’t,” Rose says, holding a hand up to stop him as he tries to lean into her space. He looks baffled for a moment, then draws himself back and makes that cute little chuff-noise again, looking hopefully at her. She purses her lips. “I’m afraid I can’t make that noise, try as I might. What does it mean?”

“It means ‘hello, I’m an over-friendly moron and I want you to cull me right now for my atrocious lack of social boundaries,’” Karkat grumbles. Gamzee grins and sprawls himself across Karkat’s lap—which also kinda sprawls him across your lap, but hey, you’re cool with that. You love a good teddy bear. 

“Shit, does it? I would’ve never known if you hadn’t got your educate on for me, brother,” Gamzee says blithely, nuzzling into Karkat’s shoulder. “You are one badass wicked schoolfeeder.”

“Is that—what it  _ actually  _ means?” Rose asks, her brows drawing together in concentration. 

Karkat snorts. “Might as well. But—” He sighs gustily. “No, not really. Usually it’s just a greeting.”

“A greeting between trolls what are getting their friendly on,” Gamzee adds. 

“Fascinating,” Rose says, leaning around you to peer at them. “Tell me, is xenobiological curiosity  _ too  _ culturally insensitive of me?”

“Yes,” Karkat says, at the same time Gamzee says, “Not at all, sister.”

Rose, evidently deciding to select the answer that benefits her the most, focuses on Gamzee. “So tell me—I can never get a straight answer out of Terezi—what do the  _ other  _ common troll vocalizations mean? I’ve heard growls before, naturally. Are those typically considered to be aggressive or defensive?”

“Uh, shit—both, I guess,” Gamzee says, scratching his chin. “Or neither, sometimes.” 

“Neither?”

“Sure fuckin’ thing.” Gamzee beams, and then proceeds to let out the single friendliest growl you’ve ever heard—but holy  _ shit,  _ you can feel the subharmonics of it in your chest. That is a way more dangerous growl than should ever belong to such a lazy, gentle creature. Karkat huffs and swats Gamzee’s chest lightly with the back of his hand, and Rose’s eyes light up. Terezi decidedly does  _ not  _ look at either of the trolls, although you can clearly see she has one ear angled in their direction. Silly Terezi. 

“It only means  _ neither  _ if you’re a pan-fucked moron,” Karkat says, tapping the tip of Gamzee’s nose with a claw. “This is  _ not  _ the source of scientific information you want, Lalonde, trust me.”

“Oh? And  _ you  _ would be a better source?” Rose asks, her tone distinctly challenging, and oh would you look at that? She already knows how to play Karkat Vantas like a deck of cards.  _ Talent.  _ (Though, to be fair, he  _ is  _ kinda predictable.) 

“Ha, only  _ of course,”  _ Karkat says, puffing himself up as much as he can with what  _ must  _ amount to at least a hundred-some pounds of Gamzee draped against his chest. “I actually paid attention to the biology schoolfeed, unlike  _ some  _ trolls.”

“Guilty as charged, bro,” Gamzee says, grinning lazily. 

“Well, then—perhaps  _ you’d  _ like to tell me what trolls vocalizations mean?” Rose suggests, leaning against you to get closer to Karkat. You wrap your arm around her waist, gently poking Terezi in the side. She glances at you, and aw—aw, she looks uncomfortable, still. You offer her your hand, and she laces her fingers with yours and squeezes gently. 

“I mean, I could,” Karkat says, studying his claws. “I doubt you’d understand, since you’re a human, though. Trolls vocalizations are a complex subject.”

“You’ll find me an astute student,” Rose assures him. 

“Hm—we’ll see about that.” Karkat sniffs haughtily (little asshole, seriously—but god you adore him). “First of all, growls are  _ not  _ supposed to be friendly, unless you’re Mr. I’m-Friends-With-Everything-That-Moves over here. Purplebloods are usually more sociable than most trolls, but this asshole takes it to an extreme.”

“Purplebloods—?”

“Let’s focus on the vocalizations, Lalonde. I don’t have time for a physiology lesson, too. Now, then—little growls signal annoyance, most of the time. Louder growls are a direct threat or a defensive reaction.  _ Sometimes  _ growls are used in redrom courting, and then  _ maybe  _ they can be considered friendly, but that’s a stretch. Courting is only for adults, anyway, so with any luck at all you should never, ever have to deal with that kind of growling. Hissing and spitting are both signs of extreme irritation, and—”

As Karkat plunges ahead in his xenobiological lessons, you seize the opportunity to squirm out from under Gamzee’s legs and head for the kitchen. Terezi moves to follow you, then pauses and sinks back against the couch, resting her cheek against Rose’s shoulder as she listens to Karkat. You find your dad in the kitchen, humming softly as he prepares a (cheese-free, because  _ trolls) _ taco casserole.

“Something other than meat, this time?” you tease, leaning against the counter. 

He chuckles, ruffling your hair with an elbow, since his hands are currently busy sprinkling seasonings across the casserole. “Indeed. Terezi should be glad to hear it. How is she doing?”

“She’s good—a little nervous. I think she doesn’t know how to act around Karkat and Gamzee,” you admit.

“They aren’t that much different than regular children, are they?”

“No—and that’s what I keep telling her. She’s convinced that trolls are The Worst, though. They must’ve left a bad impression on Alternia.”

“Mm. Somehow, I find that that doesn’t surprise me.” Dad slides the casserole into the oven, then washes his hands briskly before turning to face you. “Now, then. I’m going to go pick up some snacks, so let’s go see what your friends want, hm?”

You follow your dad back into the living room, where Karkat is ramping up in his rant—he seems to have moved onto not-angry troll noises, which are significantly more confusing than angry troll noises. “—can mean two things, depending on rate and body language, which is a  _ whole  _ different story. For simplicity, just know that little intermittent clicks mean you’re paying attention. Faster clicking usually means you’re nervous. Those are  _ throat  _ clicks, mind— _ teeth  _ clicks are a different thing entirely, they—”

Karkat pauses as Dad enters the room, eyes flicking up to watch him (well, to watch his legs, since anything above that is apparently too close to eye contact, which would be  _ criminal).  _ He folds back into himself, slightly—he’d been leaned across Gamzee to talk to Rose (and Terezi, by default), his hands gesticulating wildly, but now he sits back against the couch and folds his arms across his chest. You do hate to see him so nervous around Dad, though it’s also understandable, you know. What’s a co-palhoncho to do?

A cannonball seems appropriate.

“Cannonball!” you shout, jumping quite enthusiastically into Gamzee’s lap. This has the dually desirable effects of a) turning Karkat into a flailing, shrieking mess because  _ how dare you enter his personal bubble in such an nonsensical way, Egbert!  _ and b) making Gamzee burst into laughter as he wraps his arms around your waist to keep you from toppling off of the couch and onto the ground. Karkat starts up a steady, irritated little growl, but he quickly snaps it off again as your father speaks.

“Play nicely, John,” he chides, although his eyes twinkle with amusement. “Now—what would you kids like to snack on tonight?”

“Cherries,” Terezi says, licking her teeth eagerly.

“Would popcorn be alright with everyone?” Rose asks, glancing at each of you. When she’s met with four nods, she redirects her gaze to Dad. “Popcorn, please, Mr. Egbert.”

“And chips,” you suggest, wiggling happily—Karkat growls under his breath, and you are  _ very  _ aware you’re on bided time. You make the most of it, sprawling yourself aaaall over Gamzee and reaching up to ruffle Karkat’s hair. Pissed-off Karkat is way better than scared Karkat or sad Karkat, after all, and therefore it must be your solemn duty as a friendleader to incite a pissed-off Karkat whenever you can.

“Alrighty,” your dad says, tapping out a list on his phone. “Anything for you boys—Karkat, Gamzee?”

Gamzee opens his mouth, then glances at Karkat and shuts it again. “No thank you, Mr. Egbert-dude. We’ll eat whatever’s given—not too picky, us.”

“You’re sure?” Dad prompts gently, meeting Gamzee’s eyes. Gamzee shrinks and turns his face against Karkat’s chest, tugging on his shirt in what he probably thinks is a discreet manner. (It’s not.) “It’s alright if you want something specific.”

“We’re okay,” Karkat says, risking a glance at Dad’s face. “Thank you, though. We’re grateful for the offer.”

_ God,  _ you hate when Karkat sounds polite. It’s just not  _ right.  _

“Anytime,” Dad says, sliding his phone into his pocket and reaching for his jacket. “If you change your minds, just text me. I’ll be off now, but I should be back within the hour. Try not to tear the house down while I’m away, hm?”

“I’ll see what we can do,” you agree graciously, beaming at him. He settles his hat onto his head, then steps out into the chilly March air and clicks the door shut behind him. Karkat gives it a whopping three seconds before he’s screeching again, lunging forward. Gamzee yelps and pries himself out from between the two of you, popping up into a crouch next to Rose with a look of mild surprise on his face.

“Hiya, sister,” he says cheerfully, waving at her. Rose waves back. That’s all you get the chance to see, because the next second Karkat is tackling you off of the couch and slamming you against the ground and  _ wow,  _ for a tiny guy he sure is heavy.

“You shit-licking piece of gutterbilge, what the fuck was that for?” he demands, pressing his hands to your shoulders and snapping his teeth next to your ear. He actually  _ nips  _ you once, and you yelp in surprise (it doesn’t hurt, not really, though you think it definitely could if he was actually pissed at you) and try to work your knees up between the two of you. “I am  _ trying  _ to make a good impression on your dad, on your friends, and  _ what  _ do you have the audacity to do?”

“Cannonball,” you say, which is exactly what you should not have said. Karkat hisses and boxes you over the ears like a harried cat, but his claws don’t nick your skin—not even once. You laugh and finally wedge a knee against his chest, shoving him back slightly. He’s stronger than you are, he’s got his whole stocky little body packed full of dense troll muscle—but even  _ he  _ has to relent a little bit when you knee him (gently!) in the gut. He shifts back slightly, and you seize his temporary distraction to wrap an arm around his neck and roll him off of you. 

Karkat makes the most affronted little spitting sounds when you get him in a snug headlock, claws scraping gently across the skin of your forearms. In retribution for those tiny, tickly scratches, you get your knuckles between his horns and you noogie the  _ shit _ out of him. He yowls, trying to twist his head out of your arm. The muscles of his neck twist and bunch in a way that is  _ entirely  _ inhuman, and you release him at the peak of his pull so he flies backwards with his own momentum, shrieking. He catches his balance a few feet away from you, crouching and kneading the carpet with his claws. Strangely enough, he doesn’t even look mad anymore—in fact, you think he might even look a little bit pleased with your scuffle.

Trolls, man.

“What?” you tease him, flexing your totally awesome biceps. “These bad boys too much for you? You know, just because I don’t have claws doesn’t mean I’m just gonna let you  _ win.”  _

“Oh, trust me,” Karkat says, his eyes gleaming. “You don’t have to let me do anything, you little asshole.” His muscles bunch again, and you tense, ready for him to pounce—but before he can, Terezi leaps between you, spreading her arms.

“Don’t,” she says, her voice low. Her back is to you, but her shoulders look stiff and strung-out. There’s an unfamiliar rattle in her chest, and she curves her fingers towards Karkat. On the couch, you see Gamzee shift slightly, his easy chatter with Rose trailing off.

Karkat’s ears flatten and he bristles. “Don’t  _ what?” _

“Don’t hurt him.”

“I’m not going to hurt him, dumbass. What the fuck kind of a bastard do you think I am? I mean, I’m a pretty goddamn big one, but even  _ I  _ have standards.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re a troll. He’s a  _ human.  _ They’re easily injured,” Terezi says, shifting her weight nervously.

“Fuck, you think I don’t know that? I’ve been  _ living  _ with humans for the past year. I know how to control myself. In fact, I daresay I’m the  _ only  _ troll in this room who knows how to control myself.”

Terezi bristles, the rattle in her chest rolling into a growl. You stand up, reaching for her shoulder, but she shakes you off. “Are you  _ kidding?  _ I know how to control myself. I—”

“Suppression isn’t control,” Karkat snaps.  _ “Trust  _ me.”

“Guys, come on,” you plead. This isn’t how this is supposed to go! They’re your  _ friends,  _ they’re supposed to like each other, everything is supposed to be  _ great— _ “Please don’t fight. Look, you’re—you’re making Gamzee nervous.”

Gamzee startles at his name, looking over at you. He  _ does  _ look nervous—he’s glancing uncomfortably between Karkat and Terezi, chewing his bottom lip with the miniature swords he calls teeth. There’s a sore-looking purple spot where one of his eyeteeth has punctured. 

“Fight?” Karkat snorts. “This isn’t fighting. None of you know what  _ fighting  _ is.”

And then Karkat proceeds to show you  _ exactly _ what fighting is. He lunges at Terezi and she snarls, surging forward to meet him. The two of them clash together in a flurry of black and gray, all snapping teeth and rolling growls and flashing yellow eyes. For all of that, though, there’s not a single spot of blood—and you’d like to think you would know if there was, because troll blood is garishly bright. 

“Guys! Guys no, stop,  _ bad,  _ bad trolls, no fighting _ —”  _ You lunge forward, but you dare not get too close to those flailing orange claws. “Karkat, Terezi,  _ damn it!” _

A large hand touches your shoulder and you whirl around to see Gamzee standing behind you, as placid as he would be if your friends weren’t currently tearing each other to shreds in front of you  _ oh my god _ . “Easy there, bro. Ain’t nothin’ to get your worry on about?”

“Nothing?” you say, your voice a _tad _more hysteric than you’d like it to be. “They’re gonna _hurt _each other—isn’t it your job to keep Karkat from fighting? Isn’t that like? One of the fundamental cornerstones of your relationship?”

“Sure is,” Gamzee says cheerfully, “and my feisty brother does like to get his fight on. He ain’t fightin’ now, though. Look—” He tips his chin in the direction of the squabbling trolls, who are currently circling each other. “Not a single hurt on either one of them. If they were fighting, Karkat would’ve drawn blood already. And see there? He’s got his ears forward and his horns back. He ain’t fightin’, and I’d wager she ain’t, either.”

“Then what are they  _ doing?”  _ you demand, tangling your fingers in your hair.

“They’re learning,” Rose says, a soft sort of wonder in her voice. She rises off of the couch, smoothing her skirt out and resting a hand on your shirt as Karkat and Terezi clash again, their growls swelling. “That’s—fascinating. Clever, actually.”

“What?” You look at her, aghast. She thinks your friends brutally mauling each other is  _ clever?  _

“It is fair clever, ain’t it?” Gamzee asks, puffing up a little. “Little brother’s got a mind for master plans.” Then, evidently taking pity on your blatant confusion (and distress, okay, yes, you are  _ distressed)  _ he adds, “They’re just talking, Egbro, the way trolls do. Tryin’ to figure out where they stand with each other.”

“How the  _ heck  _ are they doing that by fighting? What?” you demand, setting your hands on your hips à la Karkat. “Is it like—fighting for dominance or something? Like wolves?”

Gamzee scratches his chin, frowning. “Nah. They’re figurin’ out who’s stronger, for sure enough, but that ain’t the point entire. Karkat’s tryin’ to tell at her he can fight without injury, and he’s tryin’ to show her trolls aren’t as fucked-up as she seems to think we are. I mean, we are  _ fucked up,  _ don’t get me wrong, but we ain’t gonna bleed a brother if we don’t motherfuckin’ have to. Sister’s tryin’ to tell Karkat she may not know how to fight like he does, but she’s willing to fuckin’ try if it means keeping her clade safe. Staking a claim, looks like. Problem is, you smell like the both of ‘em, Egbro. Shit’s real weird, them not bein’ in a clade and you bein’ in both their clades all at the same time.”

“You get all of that from a  _ fight?” _

“Sure,” Gamzee says, grinning lazily at you. “Just gotta pay attention. Well, that, and if there’s  _ one  _ thing I’m pretty motherfuckin’ good at understanding, it’s Karkat.”

“That’s impressive,” Rose murmurs. “Troll communication is more complex than I had previously imagined. For a species so inclined violence, you have a surprisingly vast amount of ways to  _ avoid  _ violence. The complex system of warning vocalizations, the threat displays, the mock fighting—one would think they  _ didn’t  _ want to genuinely fight, although their interstellar conquests seem to indicate otherwise.”

“Damn, sister,” Gamzee says, whistling. “You get all that from a fight?”

Rose grins at him. “Indeed. You only have to pay attention.”

You groan and rub your hands across your face. Friends. Friends, you’re friends with these people. Oh my god you’re friends with these people. Why are you friends with these people? (Because you love them to death, that’s why. But  _ god,  _ sometimes they can drive you up the wall.)

“There, there,” Rose says politely, patting your shoulder. “It’s alright, John.”

Across the living room, Terezi and Karkat have taken to circling each other again. Terezi is breathing through her mouth—trying, no doubt, to see as much as she can by tasting the air. Karkat actually looks calmer than you’re used to seeing him. His shoulders are back, his head cocked and his eyes sharp and focused. 

“Best friend?” Gamzee drawls, curling back up on the couch. “You wanna finish up soon? I think Egbro’s gettin’ an awful bit nervous.”

Karkat grunts in acknowledgement and swivels an ear in Gamzee’s direction, although he doesn’t look away from Terezi. It’s a good thing, too—the second Gamzee speaks, Terezi lunges at Karkat. She slams into him, knocking him back into the ground and pushing his shoulders to the ground. He braces his feet against her hips, rakes his claws down her ribs and snarls; she then proceeds to lean down and headbutt his forehead with a nasty-sounding  _ crack.  _

You think maybe that was bad. You think this because Gamzee stiffens, a nervous little clicking sound in his throat. Karkat lets his head drop back to the ground with a  _ thump  _ and just blinks for a moment, dazed. Even Terezi draws back, her eyes widening as she yanks her hands away from Karkat’s shoulders like she’s been stung.

“Shit,” she says. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t—want to hurt you, I didn’t mean—”

And then Karkat grins, because Karkat, you think, is a tricky trickster and also maybe the devil. He lunges forward, slamming Terezi back into the ground and pinning her there. He braces one knee against her stomach and presses his forearm against her throat, leaning down to  _ chomp  _ on the tip of her pointy little nose. She hisses and cuffs him over the horns, shaking her head until he sits back and huffs at her.

“Dumbass,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re lucky we’re trolls. If that had been John, you probably would’ve cracked his skull. Don’t talk to  _ me  _ about being dangerous when you don’t even know what the fuck you  _ are.”  _

He rolls off of her, shaking himself off and padding back to the couch. He curls up next to Gamzee, muttering something to him before licking away the spot of blood on his lip, which—ew, okay, but maybe kind of sweet, if you try really,  _ really  _ hard to see it through that lens. Gamzee nuzzles against his face, making a low, contented clicky-rattly noise. (A chitter? You think maybe it’s called a chitter.)

“Vantas,” Terezi says, scowling at Karkat’s back. 

“Mm-hm?” he asks, looking far too satisfied with himself. (Actually, scratch that—seeing Karkat  _ satisfied,  _ especially with himself, is far too rare a thing. It’s a good look on him, not that you’re ever going to tell  _ him  _ that.) 

“Fuck you.”

“You wish,” Karkat sneers, snapping his teeth at her. You groan and flop down across his lap again, so he glowers at you instead of her because you don’t think you can handle anymore weird troll communicational fights tonight, thanks. 

“So what all are we going to be doing on this fine night?” Gamzee asks, and Karkat and Terezi (thank  _ god)  _ both glance up at him. “Egbro?”

“I was thinking we could watch a movie or something,” you say. Terezi cautiously comes to sit on the couch, and Rose takes a seat between you and her (and by extension her and Karkat). “But whatever you guys want to do is fine with me.”

“A movie sounds  _ bitchtits,  _ bro,” Gamzee says, beaming. “And then maaaaybe—shit, have you guys ever been cricket-hunting?”

Karkat snorts.

“Cricket- _ what?”  _ you ask, arching your eyebrows.

“Cricket-hunting,” Gamzee says, and then repeats it in raspy and completely unintelligible Alternian, as though  _ that’s  _ going to help you understand. 

“Oh! I remember that,” Terezi says, her ears flicking up. “I mean—vaguely. I think I did it a few times, when I was really little.”

“Bitchtits, sister,” Gamzee proclaims, squirming off of the couch and bouncing on his toes. “You wanna go train up these humans in the art of hunting crickets, or do we all wanna watch a kickass movie first?”

“Train us in cricket-hunting,” Rose decides, standing and offering you a hand up. You take it, letting her haul you to your feet. “We can watch the movie once our snacks arrive.”

So the five of you make the short trek to the backyard, when Gamzee then commences to train you in the art of hunting crickets—literal, shiny black, hopping crickets. Unfortunately, Gamzee’s method of teaching is more or less just— _ doing  _ the thing and then expecting you to copy him. He plods through the short grass, which is  _ juuust  _ beginning to awaken from its winter dormancy, and as soon as he sees a flicker of movement he crouches, then pounces with a speed that is  _ way  _ too unfair for such a gangly body, slapping his hands down on the ground and scooping up a cricket. 

“Tada!” he says, beaming at you like this is, truly, a victory worthy of celebration. He displays his flattened cricket-conquest on his palm, wiggling happily. “See? Easy as motherfuckin’ pie. You all be tryin’, now.”

“Ha, that  _ is  _ easy,” Terezi says, crouching and pricking her ears. “They’re all over the place. Hey Rose, John—whoever gets the most crickets wins, onetwothree go!”

As Terezi springs at her first cricket, you see Gamzee offer his own cricket to Karkat. “First kill’s yours, brother mine,” he says, smiling sheepishly. You think, through the dim dusk light, Karkat might flush slightly. Crickets: the grandest romantic gesture, making tiny angry trolls swoon for centuries. 

Of course, then Karkat  _ eats  _ the cricket, which is not romantic in the slightest ohmygod.

You, meanwhile, are having no such luck in your cricket-catching endeavours. Even Rose seems to be doing better than you, prowling along beside the house, where you can hear the crickets screaming their terror (or their mating urges, you’re not sure which, at this point) into the growing dark. Terezi has already caught a bounty, which she’s beginning to stash in her pockets. 

“You can  _ smell  _ them,” she crows in delight as she pounces on one right in front of you. 

“Correction:  _ you  _ can smell them. How many do you have, anyway?”

“This,” she says, proudly displaying yet another squashed cricket, “is my sixth. You’d better catch up, John. Winner gets to pick the movie.”

“Wait,  _ what?”  _ Karkat demands, stomping over. “We didn’t agree on that.”

Terezi crouches, tapping the ground with her claws—you’d almost think she was trying to goad Karkat into another fight. “Oh, sorry—didn’t know the resident bums wanted input. Besides, if the two of you are so good at being  _ trolls,  _ this shouldn’t be hard for you, right?”

Karkat flips her off, and then proceeds to pounce on a cricket of his own. The two of them bound off into the yard in pursuit of crickets, sniping at each other the whole way. You glare at the grass,  _ trying  _ to make yourself see the gleam of light from a cricket’s shiny skin. You tear your eyes away from the ground as Gamzee crouches beside you, offering you that ever-constant, sleepy smile. 

“Here, bro—you want a motherfucker to get his help on?” he offers. You nod earnestly, because there’s no way you’re going to catch even a  _ single  _ cricket by blundering around in the dark like this. Also, why the  _ heck  _ do trolls find this an enjoyable pastime? “Alrighty—crouch down, here. Keep your tailend down, head square with your shoulders, that’s it.”

Gamzee hunkers down into his own crouch, sinking his claws into the soft dirt in front of him. Like that, when he’s looking away from you, you can see how much of a predator he could be. He’s got enormous horns, wickedly-sharp claws, and more muscle than you can fathom. He’s not  _ bulky,  _ not by any means, but there are well-defined lines in every part of him, like somebody put him together with wiry muscle and hard bones and sharp points alone. 

Then he glances over at you, his eyes sleepy and fond, and there is no  _ way  _ something this cute could ever be dangerous.

You wiggle down into a crouch beside him, although the position is unnatural. “Okay. Now what?”

“Now you get your sense on of ‘em.” Gamzee licks his teeth, then opens his mouth to breathe in the air. “Can smell ‘em, if you’d like, or hear them chirping their little motherfuckin’ hearts out. Awful hard for a human, though, ain’t that so?”

“Unfortunately, it is so,” you admit. “I am the weakest of senses, it is me.”

Gamzee laughs, his eyes crinkling up around the edges. “Well, that’s alright, brother. You’ve got stronger parts to make up for it, yet. Here—how’s about I rustle ‘em up for you, and your eyes’ll be able to catch the movement a mite easier than they would anything else.”

“Sounds good to me. You are the cricket-hunting master.”

Gamzee coughs into his elbow and then shakes himself off and chirps happily, prowling forward. “Now, you keep a close watch. See one hop, and mark where it up and lands. Then you get your pounce on, easy-peasy like.”

“Easy-peasy,” you mumble, wiggling your butt like a cat about to pounce because  _ that’s  _ supposed to make you feel more predatory. Gamzee lunges forward, slapping the ground with his hands, and sure enough, several crickets leap away from him. You lock your eyes on one and see where it lands. With a desperate pounce, you fly forward and slam your hands into the ground where you  _ think  _ the cricket is. Something flutters beneath your palms and you feel a surge of victory, let out a heroic battle-cry and—

Oh. Oh,  _ this  _ is why trolls find this an enjoyable pastime.

“I got one!” you say, scooping it up in your hands and laughing. “Ha ha, I  _ did  _ it. Did you see that, Gamzee?”

“Of course,” Gamzee says obligingly, grinning from ear-to-ear. Aw—aw, he has  _ dimples  _ through his paint _ .  _ “It was a mighty fine catch, brother.”

“Thanks, man.” You open your palms to peek down at the tiny cricket. “Heh—it’s kinda cute. I guess I’m supposed to eat it now, right?”

“Well, generally, that’s a thing as is done—but since you humans got sensitive tastes, you can let it right go, if it suits you better.”

“Here.” You offer him the cricket, keeping it carefully cupped between your palms. “You can have it. I mean, it’s kind of your fault I caught it at all—you earned it. Or, wait—it’s a romantic thing, isn’t it? Crap—”

“Romantic? Nah, brother, not always. More of a clade thing.” He looks at you with way more regret than he should, rubbing his arm. “You ought not give it to me. It’s your cricket, fair and square. Should let it go.”

“You really don’t want it?”

“No, no,” Gamzee hastens to assure you. “It’s a hell of a catch, little brother. I’d be glad to have it. But a good clademate I do not happen to be, so you should—”

“Here.” You push the cricket at him again, setting your jaw. “Take it. I want you to have it.”

Gamzee shrinks back, his ears drooping. “Aw, shit, bro—I really shouldn’t. You don’t know—”

“Take the damn cricket, Gamzee.”

Gamzee hesitates, and then he reaches out and takes the damn cricket. He cups it in his palms, cradles it close to his chest like it’s something more than just a squeaky, very unhappy insect. “...you for all serious, bro?”

“Yeah. You’re my friend, right? So that makes us clademates. The cricket’s yours, buddy,” you say, determined. Gamzee looks at you with wide, wondering eyes, and oh—oh no, his lower lip is trembling like he’s about to cry, that’s—that’s not good, that is a Red Alert. “Shit, hey, are you—are you okay? I mean—”

He nods rapidly, his curls bouncing. “More than okay, little brother,” he says, a wobbly smile spreading across his face.  _ “More  _ than okay, holy shit. Thank you.  _ Thank you.  _ You won’t regret it, I fuckin’ promise. Won’t ever do anything—I’ll be good, I’ll not let harm come to you, clademate.”

You—think maybe this declaration was worth more than a cricket. Also, it’s vaguely ominous, but you suppose trolls face more danger than humans do, so perhaps his assertion of protection is normal. It’s—touching, in an alien sort of way. 

And then Gamzee eats the cricket, which effectively snaps you out of your touching moment. What can you say? Eating crickets is just a startling gesture, you guess.

“I appreciate it—and I’m not ever gonna let you be hurt again, either,” you say, seriously. You’ll be damned if you let him go back to his shitty family. You reach out to ruffle his hair, and the texture is wiry and rough under your palm. He chirrups at you, grinning and nuzzling up into your hand. “You wanna catch a few more crickets?”

“Hell yeah. Just got one more thing to get squared away,” he says, leaning forward to bump his head against yours. Then he angles his chin up, nuzzles the side of his jaw against your hair, which is—odd, but not uncomfortable, you suppose. After that, he ducks his head beneath yours and then  _ nips  _ you, right beneath the chin. His teeth are viciously sharp, but he’s gentle enough that they don’t even sting, although the gesture does leave you completely baffled. “There,” he says once he draws back, sounding quite pleased with himself. “Clademates proper. Let’s go get some crickets, motherfucker.”

The two of you bound off into the yard, and Gamzee ends up siddling over to Karkat, chattering enthusiastically at him in Alternian. Judging from the uncertain look Karkat gives you, you have a good idea what they’re talking about. Terezi pads over to you, chomping happily on a cricket. “‘sup, Egbert? How many have you caught?”

“One,” you say, thrusting your chest out Proudly. For a human, you think that’s a pretty good number. Your mangrit is satisfied with it, at least. 

“One?” Terezi bursts into cackles, pointing at you. “Rose? Rose, hey, did you hear—did you hear him?”

“What?” you demand, whipping around to face Rose, who smiles politely at you. “How many have  _ you guys  _ caught?”

“Thirteen,” Terezi says, grinning.

“Seven,” Rose says. “For a human, I believe this to be a satisfactory number.”

You scowl at her. Your mangrit is now  _ wounded.  _

“Hey, hold up—” Terezi prowls towards you, sniffing the air—her lips curls, exposing her mouthful of shark teeth. “You smell like that subjugglator.”

“The what-now?”

“The purpleblood, the clown, the— _ Makara.”  _ She clicks her teeth together, whirling around to glower at him. “Hey,  _ Makara,  _ get your ass over here. You think you can mark my friends just because you’re a highblood?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake—” Karkat pins his ears, whirling to face her. Gamzee’s eyes flicker uncertainly in your direction, the streetlights flashing off of his irises in a gleam of green. “Didn’t we just go over this, asshole? You need to learn to  _ share,  _ you entitled piece of shit. John’s our friend as much as he is yours.”

“Oh, yeah?” Terezi bares her teeth at Gamzee, but—her ears are still forward. That’s a good sign, right? That means she’s not actually mad at him? (Oh god, you hope.) “Prove it.”

You have no idea how fighting is supposed to prove that—and apparently Gamzee doesn’t, either, because he shrinks away. “Aw, come on now, sister. I don’t want to be roughhousing. Shit’s distressing to, uh—John.” He looks beseechingly at you. 

You step forward, eager to keep your friends from fighting  _ again.  _ Jeez, when did being Friendleader turn into being a referee? “Yeah, Terezi. Let’s just all try to get along, okay? I  _ like  _ Gamzee.”

“I never said I didn’t,” Terezi says, flexing her claws. “I just want to fight him.”

“Well, thank  _ god,  _ at least she can admit that much.” Karkat throws his hands in the air, huffing. “He doesn’t want to fight, though. Get over it.”

“What?” Terezi demands, her eyes narrowing. “Is he scared?”

“Always, sister,” Gamzee agrees with heartbreaking earnesty. “I  _ hate  _ fighting. Hate it something motherfuckin’ fierce, so I’d be all manner of grateful if we could—maybe not.”

For a minute, you think Terezi is going to lunge at him anyway—but instead, she sighs and lets her shoulders relax, tipping her head to the side. “Fine. You win this round, Makara.”

Gamzee beams at her, relaxing. “Bitchtits, sister!”

“But—” She points her cane at him, her eyes glittering. “I’m not done with you, yet. I challenge  _ you  _ to a fight of  _ crickets.  _ Whoever finds the most in two minutes wins, starting now!” 

She’s lunging after crickets before Gamzee has a chance to blink, and then he’s scrambling after his own crickets, laughing. Karkat rolls his eyes, but you think there’s a tiny hint of approval on his face as he moves to stand next to you and Rose. You take it upon yourself to time them, and once two minutes are up, Terezi is declared the victor—a fact which she is  _ very  _ adamant about crowing to your dad, once he returns. She’s  _ also  _ very adamant about rubbing her face all over your hair, which she has literally not done ever. 

“Scent-marking,” she explains apologetically, when you ask her about it. “It means you’re  _ my  _ friend.” She takes a deep breath, then sighs. “And theirs, too, I  _ guess.” _

So you laugh, and you let her mark her, because if it makes her feel more secure, you’re not going to complain. Besides, it’s not a scent that you can smell—they all just smell like  _ trolls  _ to you, musky and vaguely reminiscent of lizards. If smelling like a lizard is what it takes to make your friends happy, then consider you the world’s smelliest lizard boy. 

As it turns out, Karkat won the overall cricket-catching contest (somehow, you’re not surprised) and he declares that the five of you will watch the rest of the  _ Twilight  _ saga. (You’ve created a monster.) The five of you cram yourself onto the couch, with Gamzee more or less draped over you and Karkat like a particularly pointy blanket, and you watch movies long into the night. 

Throughout your marathon, Karkat crunches his way through half a bag of chips and steals a few of Terezi’s cherries, which is the most food you’ve seen him take without looking guilty, yet. You think maybe the fact that your dad is out of the room helps. Gamzee seems more relaxed with your dad gone, too—he swears more freely, laughs louder, and even goes so far as to bicker with Rose about the finer points of healthy romantic relationships. Though, to be fair, his  _ bickering  _ is mostly just him sleepily stating opinions and then frowning when he disagrees. 

Overall, it is a good, good night, and a memory that you will cherish for years to come. If only you had known how very  _ awful  _ the next few weeks were going to be, if only you had known the fear and misery to come within the next few days,  _ if only— _

If only.

The good times pass too quickly.

* * *

Earth’s sun is weaker than Alternia’s, but after centuries of nocturnal programming, you are in no way equipped to handle it for  _ this long.  _ You lay panting against the sun-baked earth, your mouth dry and your skin stiff and sore. It’s long since flushed yellow with the burn, but there’s not a  _ goddamn  _ thing you can do about it. There’s no shade here—no shade anywhere nearby. Noir made sure of  _ that.  _

“Hey there, Captor-boy.” Nuodel crouches in front of your pen, careful to keep her hands away from the electrified fencing that traps you here. “How is it in there? Warm enough?”

You can’t be bothered to summon the energy to bitch at her. Every spare scrap of energy you’ve got is being redirected to your cooling centers—not that it’s helping much. You’ve long since sweated out what water you had inside of your miserable body, and though you’ve taken to copying the highbloods and licking your forearms (the evaporation of your spit helps cool your blood down, albeit  _ barely),  _ you find it makes your tongue feel far too dry and thick. You’re still a warmblood, but fucking  _ hell,  _ even a warmblood can’t survive the hundred-degree temperatures you’re being subjected to for hours at a time. 

(You hate to think about how utterly miserable the highbloods must be.)

“Glad to hear it,” Nuodel continues, as though your wretched panting is answer enough. “I just wanted to stop by and deliver the good news myself—Noir’s made his move. Got a couple folks headed up to Washington as we speak. Your little freak friend oughta be here soon.”

Fuck. Fuck, shit, fuck. You didn’t think it was possible for your day to get worse, and  _ yet.  _ “Fuck,” you mumble at her, your tongue heavy and clumsy. “Fuck you guys, seriously. GZ’s gonna—gonna kill you.”

Nuodel’s eyes flash, and she snarls at you through the links of the fence. “Ha! You think I’m scared of  _ that  _ little fucker? I taught him everything he knows. Sure, he has a little bit of discipline problem—but so do all wigglers. Nothing that can’t be beaten out of them, and you can rest assured, once we get him back I’m going to beat him hard enough his fucking  _ descendents  _ feel it. But—” She takes a deep breath, smiling wistfully. “All in good time, wiggler. All in good fucking time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all again for your comments and encouragement aaaa !!! i hope youre all doing well !!!!


	6. et tu, brute?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: illness, references to injuries + drug addiction, violence, blood, hallucinations, kidnapping
> 
> chapter track: "you are my sunshine" by the phantoms

Huh. You have a loose fang. 

“Huh. I have a loose fang,” you say. 

“Shit, you for real, bro?” Gamzee leans towards you, peering curiously at your mouth—you obligingly open it and wiggle your fang (one of the small ones near the side of your mouth) with your tongue. “Motherfucker, get a load of that. You just notice it?”

“Yeah.” You close your mouth, although you continue to worry at your tooth between words. Wiggle wobble wiggle. “Neat. It’s about fucking time, anyway.”

“Want me to pull it for you?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Mm—I don’t think it’s quite  _ that  _ loose.”

“Fair enough, motherfucker.” Gamzee chuckles, leaning forward to bump his head against yours. “Oughta be hittin’ your last growth spurt, soon, huh? You feelin’ the pains yet?”

You shake your head. Reach up to press the pad of your thumb to your fang—wiggle wobble. “Nuh-uh. With my shitty luck, I probably won’t grow at all,” you say mournfully. “I’m going to be the size of a prepubescent wiggler forever.”

“Aw, now, that wouldn’t be so bad—it would make for some hella snuggles, best friend.”

You snort. “Yeah, because compared to your giant dumb highblood ass I would  _ literally  _ be the size of a grub. You’d probably roll over and squish me.”

Gamzee sniffs and pins his ears, affronted. “Nuh- _ uh.  _ I would never, best friend. Besides, you’d make such a squallin’ ruckus I’d sure enough wake up before I’d done more than lean on you.”

“Oh, of course. May my wailing save my life from the throes of such a humiliating death.” You pat his face and he yawns, leaning against your palm. “Don’t go to sleep yet, dumbass. You have to eat breakfast.”

“Mm. I’m not sleepy,” Gamzee says, sleepily.

You glance at the clock on the wall, then wiggle out from under the desk and reach back to offer Gamzee your hand. “C’mon, up. Let’s go.”

Gamzee worms out after you, lacing his fingers with yours and giving them a gentle squeeze. He releases you in order to tug on clean clothes and paint his face, and you rub your eyes and stretch leisurely. The two of you trot downstairs and find John halfway sprawled across the kitchen table, chewing lazily on a strip of bacon. He mumbles incoherently at you and you roll your eyes and slouch into the seat next to him. 

“Good morning, boys,” the dad says from behind you, and you’re proud of yourself for only flinching a  _ little.  _ “How was your night?”

“It was awesome, Mr. Egbert-dude,” Gamzee says, smiling shyly at the dad. He always looks like he’s halfway to quailing, when he’s around the dad—ears lowered, teeth carefully covered, horns tipped away. Ordinarily, you’d loathe such a display of weakness in front of an adult, but—

But, well. The dad  _ is  _ your best chance at staying safe, and if sucking up to him is what you need to do to ensure that, then fucking  _ hell,  _ you’ll suck up. You keep your own horns tilted away from him (not that they’re much of a threat, anyway, fucking nubs) as you reach for the clean plates, sliding one towards Gamzee and another towards the dad as he sits down across from John. 

“Thank you, Karkat,” the dad says, and you feel a little surge of— _ something,  _ something dumb and naive and wiggler-small. It almost feels like pride. You keep your eyes down and reach for the bacon. “Any big plans for the day, you three?”

“Sleeping,” Gamzee sighs contently, shoveling eggs into his mouth. 

“Sleeping,” you agree, although that is definitely  _ not  _ what you will be doing. You’ll be keeping guard as Gamzee sleeps—maybe you’ll read, or go visit the birds, or watch one of the dumb human movies lining John’s shelves. 

“That sounds like quite the itinerary. I wish you all the best success in your endeavours,” the dad says, and you’re not great at reading human emotions, but you think maybe he’s teasing you. A smile flickers across Gamzee’s face, and he ducks his head. “And what about you, John? Anything exciting going on at school today?”

“Mmph,” John says. 

“Thrilling,” the dad agrees. 

The four of you finish breakfast in silence—but, for once, it’s the sort of companionable silence that you don’t find yourself opposed to. John slowly turns into a functioning human being as he eats, and by the time you’ve all finished he’s turned your silence into amicable chatter. However, it’s also chatter that happens to fly  _ right  _ over your head, because you literally have no idea what human trivialities he’s blathering on about when he discusses his schoolfeeding. Occasionally, though, he happens to say something that actually catches your attention—like right now, for instance. 

“...stabbed to death by at a senate meeting by, like, sixty people,” he says, waving his fork enthusiastically in the air. “And two of them were even his friends, you know?  _ Et tu, Brute?  _ So they’re putting on this play on the fifteenth of March because, like, ides, and I know your birthday is that day so— _ wait.”  _ He slams his fork against the table. “Your  _ birthday.” _

The dad arches an eyebrow at him, looking pointedly at his fork. John sets it (gently) onto his plate again. “Indeed,” the dad says, his voice surprisingly mellow—you’d expected him to snap at John after that look. “My birthday. But if you’d like to attend the play, I certainly have no objections to—”

“Nooo,” John whines, standing up and tugging at the sleeve of the dad’s white button-up. “No way, we are  _ not  _ discussing your birthday plans right in front of you. It’s gotta be a  _ surprise.  _ Out out out out—”

The dad laughs (he sounds like John, when he does that) and rises from his chair, allowing John to pull him out of the kitchen. “Alright, alright, my boy. Karkat, Gamzee, it appears I’ll be going now. I’ll see the two of you this afternoon.”

“Bye, Mr. Egbert,” Gamzee says, snickering as he watches John rush the dad out of the house. You hear John and his dad talk briefly, and then the door clicks and John bolts back into the room, his eyes wide. 

“Okay, listen: mission ‘Plan Dad a Super Awesome Surprise Birthday Party for the Fifth Time’ is a go,” he says, a determined set to his shoulders. “I’m recruiting you. There. You’re recruited, it’s a done deal, no take-backs. We have three days to do this, people. Ideas?”

“Uuh—well, he seemed like he might enjoy that play you mentioned,” Gamzee offers, tapping his claws on the edge of his plate.

John points enthusiastically at him. “Awesome! We’ll put that on the ‘ideas’ board, top of the list. You get all the participation points,  _ all  _ of them.”

Gamzee beams, his shoulders doing a little happy wiggle that warms your heart. 

“And where  _ is  _ the ‘ideas’ board?” you ask, arching an eyebrow. 

John taps his temples. “It’s up  _ here.” _

“Oh, for the love of—”

“Shh-shh-shush, don’t interrupt the magic,” John says, flapping a hand at you, and you bristle at him. Dumb humans and their dumb disregard for pale boundaries—not that you’re pacified at  _ all  _ by his shushes. In fact, they only serve to rile you up more because  _ fuck this little cheerful upstart, fuck him in the  _ ear. (Shit, though, you think he’s growing on you, the longer you’re around him.  _ Damn it.) _ “No negativity, only  _ ideas.”  _

“Erm—we could make him dinner?” Gamzee suggests. You glower at him for taking  _ John’s  _ side, of all things. “Aw, c’mon now, best friend. That dad’s been nothing but good to us. We oughta do somethin’ good back, right?”

He curls against the link in your head, and you peer briefly into his mind just long enough to get a wordless sort of longing latched onto a fervent excitement—he wants to be good. He wants to make the dad happy. (Fuck, of course he would get attached. Look how close he got to your lusus before—well. Before.)

You sigh and prop your chin in your hand. “Fine,” you grumble. “I suppose, if nothing else, it would make him like us more.”

“Aw—no, he already likes you guys, I promise. You don’t need to worry about stuff like that,” John says. “But that was a really good idea, Gamzee—he’s always making  _ us  _ food, so maybe we should try to make him some.”

“Bitchtits,” Gamzee says, beaming. “I’ll make him one of my pies.”

_ “No you absolutely will not.” _

“C’mon, Karkat, I’m sure his pies are awesome!”

“Yeah, brother. Weren’t gonna put nothin’ in it but fruit, promise,” Gamzee says, looking earnestly at you. You slide down to prop your chin on the table, glowering. He offers you two fingers, half a diamond.  _ “Diamond  _ promise. Unbreakable shit, bro.”

Damn. He’s right. You sigh gustily and touch the tips of your fingers to his. “Nothing but fruit.”

“It’ll be the fruitiest pie this side of the galaxy, for sure enough.”

“It’d better be.” You glance up at John. “What other stuff does your dad like?”

“Uuum—” John rocks back and forth on his heels, chewing his lower lip with his oversized teeth. “His pipe, and ties, and cake, and classy gentlemen, and shaving. Oh and also Rose’s mom.”

“Rose’s mom?” Mm, romantic intrigue, your  _ calling.  _

“Yeah, Roxy Lalonde. They’ve been A Thing for, like,  _ years,  _ but neither of them will admit it so they just flirt back and forth all the time. It’s painful to watch.”

You scratch your chin, squinting. “Hmm. Maybe we could set them up? If your dad needs help learning how to court, I know  _ all the rules.  _ Every single one ever. Tell me—and I know humans have one giant fuckwad of a quadrant—but do they lean more towards hearts or diamonds?”

“Uuuh—hearts, I think? Although I have to admit, I don’t really understand diamonds, so that might just be my ignorance speaking.”

“Oh, it always is, Egbert,” you say. “Let’s see. If it’s hearts he’s wanting to court, we could help him hunt something to impress her.”

Gamzee’s eyes widen.  _ “Shit  _ yeah, bro. That’s a good idea. Big or small, you think?”

“Mm—small, for starters. If they haven’t actually quadranted yet—”

“Woah, woah, guys, hold on a second.” John flaps his hands at you and you scowl. “Great participation, Karkat, but that’s—not exactly how human courting works. Besides, they’re both adults. If they want to quadrant, they will. I think they’re both waiting until Rose and I move out, anyway.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Why the fuck…?”

“I think—I mean, I don’t  _ know,  _ but I  _ think  _ it’s because they both just want to focus on raising their kids, right now. A romantic relationship takes up lots of time and energy, right? Mr. Romance Master?”

He glances at you and you nod sagely. So much time and energy. So much. 

“Right. But so does raising kids—and some people can do it at the same time, which is  _ awesome,  _ but I don’t think that’s something Dad and Roxy want to try. Anyway, Roxy’s focused on getting her fostering license right now, too. She’ll be super busy with a new kid soon, so I think we’re gonna have to scratch the epic ‘kids-shipping-their-parents’ montage this time.”

You sniff. Human kids. They’re so much more troublesome than wigglers. (Besides, you don’t  _ ship  _ people. That’s Nepeta’s thing.) (...mostly.) “I guess that makes sense. Fine, so we’ll need to think of something else.”

“Consider it your assignment for the day,” John says, glancing at his watch. “Okay, I reeeally need to go before I’m late to school or Dad gets bored waiting for me. I’ll see you guys tonight, okay? Team, break!” 

Gamzee waves enthusiastically as John bolts out of the door. When you hear the car rumble to life outside, you push yourself to your feet and gather your plate and Gamzee’s (and John’s, that heathen). John had taken it upon himself to explain  _ chores  _ to you over the weekend, and you take them Very Seriously because A) they are what’s required of you and they are  _ so much better  _ than what was required of you in the gang and B) you want to impress upon the dad that you are valuable and obedient and don’t need to be kicked out anytime soon please and thank you. 

As you scrub the dishes (each one must be perfectly, flawlessly clean before you set it aside to dry), Gamzee starts begins playing a noisy rap on his phone and then turns to wiping down the counters and table. You dry the dishes, giving them each one last critical look, before placing them back in the cabinets as Gamzee sweeps up the crumbs from breakfast. When you finish, your hands smell like bubbles and, according to the dish soap bottle, refreshing rain. 

“Spick and span, best friend,” Gamzee announces, beaming at the kitchen. “So, what you say we get our plan on for that dad’s wriggling day party?”

“Nope.” You say, reaching up to boop Gamzee’s nose before he can give you the barkbeast-eyes.  _ “You  _ are going to sleep as soon as you take  _ this.”  _ You slap down a tiny medicine cup of the cough syrup (well, set it down gently, actually, but with lots of  _ slap  _ emphasis in your voice) and he groans. “Ah-ah-ah. No complaining. It’s better than coughing all day, isn’t it?”

Gamzee whines noisily, slouching down farther—and they say  _ you’re  _ the dramatic one. 

“Listen, I know it’s gross, and I know it won’t make your cough go away. But it  _ will  _ make you feel better.”

“Makes my chest itch,” Gamzee mumbles, butting his face against your shoulder until you consent to pat his head as patronizingly as possible. There-there, little fucking grub, there-there. (He is so pitiful and you do love him so much.) “‘n then I cough up nasty shit for forever. Also, tastes motherfuckin’  _ grooooss.” _

“I know. Poor little grub.” You scratch  _ juuuust  _ behind his horns and feel him shiver, his hands coming up to rest on your hips. Mm. You could bully him into taking the medicine, of course, but there are... _ better  _ ways. (Okay,  _ fine,  _ so maybe you’re in a piling mood. Who can blame you? Your palemate is absolutely pathetic.) “But you know what?”

“Mm, what?”

You rub your cheek against his, undoubtedly smearing his facepaint, and trace your claws gently around the bases of his horns. He makes a little rattling gasp and tugs you closer, pressing needily into your space. “It would make me feel better if you took it,” you say, a warm little warble beneath your voice that has Gamzee chirring softly at you, delighted. “You worry me so much, you pitiful wreck. I want to make you feel better. I want to make you feel okay again.”

Gamzee makes a soft, wanting sound and leans his horns towards your hands—completely unsubtle, him. You wrap your hands around the middle of his horns, rub your thumbs over the shallow ridges and listen to him groan.  _ “Karkat, _ brother, please—”

You press a kiss to his forehead, taste greasepaint and the cold musk of his skin, and reach for the medicine cup. He has the audacity to fucking  _ whimper  _ when you take your hands off of his horns again, and it tugs at something sharp and warm in your chest. You croon soothingly at him, leaning back to show him the medicine cup again. “Take this for me? Please, love?”

_ Love,  _ that’s the kicker. You watch his pupils swell in front of you, because you are busy kicking him unabashedly in the face with oxytocin and endorphins. He watches you, rapt, and gives the faintest little nod when you tap a claw against the medicine cup. You chitter approvingly at him, cupping his face in your free hand and rubbing a thumb across his bottom lip, coaxing him to open his mouth for you. He does so without a second of hesitation (god, you love him) and allows you to tip the cough syrup into his mouth. His nose wrinkles in distaste, but he obediently swallows it, then leans his face against your shoulder and whines for you again.

“Theeere we go,” you murmur, kissing his hair as you set the medicine cup aside again. You cup the back of his neck, trailing your claws lightly beneath the soft, fuzzy hairs at the edge of his hairline. “There we go. Good job, Gamzee, thank you. I’m so proud of you, you know that?” He shudders in your arms, whining again, higher-pitched. “Yeah, I am. I’m so, so proud of you, no matter what. You’re my palemate. You’re my best friend.”

“Best friend,” he whispers, his voice a rasp as he nuzzles urgently against your shoulder, your throat, your jaw. “Best friend, palemate, beloved, little brother,  _ Karkat.” _

You slide your fingers through his hair, tangle them in and hold him, briefly, so you can rub your scent across his hair and face without him moving. His eyes slide shut, his jaw going slack as he rattles up another warm chirr for you. He runs his hands from your hips to your ribs, back and forth, a slow pattern across your sides. “Gamzee,” you murmur—kiss his nose, his chin, his cheeks, the start of each healing wound on his face. “Gamzee, Gamzee, Gamzee. I pity you so much, goddamnit.”

Gamzee’s fingers twitch against your sides (he could tear you open, there, he could shatter your ribs and tear out your organs but he won’t,  _ he won’t)  _ and he kisses your ear, the roots of a deep purr starting in his chest. “Pity you too, best beloved,” he murmurs. “So much. More than you could ever motherfuckin’ imagine.”

“I know.” And you do. (You just get scared sometimes, that’s all. That’s all.) “Hey, c’mon. You need to get to sleep.” Gamzee starts to whine, and you pap his cheek firmly. “We’ll cuddle until you fall asleep, okay? Want me to read something to you?”

Gamzee nods earnestly, lacing his fingers with yours and letting you lead him back to the study. You curl up with him and he kisses your mouth, soft and slow and sweet. He tastes like cherry cough syrup (like ineffectual battering against a deep-rooted, malevolent sickness). You sigh and let him hold you, run your hands across his back and shoulders. For once, he doesn’t wince beneath your touch. For once, he isn’t exhausted and sore and miserable. 

For once, you want to stay in this place, this hive, this home.

(An orphaned wiggler’s dream only.)

Gamzee kisses your face, cards his fingers through your hair and glides his palms along the tips of your horns. The feeling is warm and safe and familiar, not nearly enough to put you under (to put you in danger) but enough to have your muscles relaxing, to have a thready purr aching in your chest. You knead gently against his chest and tip your head back, show him your throat because despite all common sense anywhere, you trust this doped-up giant asshole with your life. 

But this doped-up giant asshole is also getting sleepy—he’d taken the watch yesterday while you slept, and there are dark bags beneath his eyes. You squirm to sit up and tug him around, so his head rests in your lap, and go to work on his horns. He gasps and shudders and purrs up at you, and you rub his horns in slow, smooth strokes. Knead your fingers into his hornbeds, squeeze firmly around the bases and watch him go perfectly, blissfully limp against you. (You miss that part, at least. You miss being his to take care of. You miss relying on him.)

Once Gamzee is pooled in your lap, relaxed and purring lazily, you decaptchalogue the English novel (which you had harangued John into getting from his school library for you) you’ve been painstakingly sludging your way through. You keep one hand on his horns, in his hair, keep him warm and soft for you as you begin to read for him. His ears flick as he listens, his purr hitching if you get to a spot he really likes (or push your fingers into the scalp  _ just  _ behind the roots of his horns). You don’t read for very long before he’s asleep, breathing slow and deep. If you brush against the link between you, you can feel his mind shifting lazily, slow and dark and aimless. 

“‘Twilight, again. Another ending. No matter how perfect the day is, it always has to end,’” you finish, closing the book quietly and recaptchaloguing it. You spend another hour curled up with him, petting his face and his shoulders and simply enjoying his nearness. You can’t find it within you to leave your palemate alone on the pile—especially not after you’ve just put him under. Every instinct you have shrieks against it, and you have no objection to make.

Eventually, however, you grow far too sleepy to risk staying in one place much longer. You nip Gamzee’s ear gently, not quite enough to wake him—his claws twitch, lip pulling back from his fangs in an unconscious warning, and you know he’s back up. He’ll be able to defend himself, should he need to. Your pale instincts satisfied with this knowledge, you carefully squirm out of the pile. Gamzee stirs in his sleep, so you tuck your crab pillow into his arms for him to latch onto.

After that, you slip out of the study and head for the ablutions block, stretching luxuriously. You piss and wash your hands, then examine the wounds on your shoulder. They’re naught but gross, bright red scabs, now—and Gamzee’s wounds are healing well, too. The vision in his right eye remains worryingly shitty, but there’s nothing you can do about that without a doctor, and a doctor requires a certain amount of legal-citizen-ness, which you lack. Still. It rankles you that you can’t fix him the way you should, as his palemate.

You pad towards the kitchen, basking in the warm light from the house’s windows. The brightness of it makes you even sleepier, but it’s not as harsh as Alternia’s sun—still harsh enough to burn your skin and make your eyes sting, but not enough to blind you or scald your flesh from your bones in an hour’s time. As you pass the front door, you notice the dad’s hat hanging on the coat rack near the door—damn. He’s never forgotten that, before. It must be because John rushed him out so quickly. (You hope that didn’t piss him off. You really do need to think of some good ideas for his wriggling day.)

Once in the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of water and sip on it as you peek out of one of the windows. The sun is arcing high above the horizon, glimmering and pale in the late winter sky. You wonder what spring is like, here. You wonder if they have all the thunderstorms of New York. Will you still be safe, when the flowers begin to bloom? Will you still be here, with Gamzee? With John, with the dad? 

You doubt it. (You want to be, so badly. You never knew how nice it was to be  _ safe.) _

The raucous cry of a bird jerks you out of your thoughts and you rinse your glass, heading for the front door. The air is crisp and cool outside, and you breathe deeply. It smells like growing things—fresh grass, turned dirt, chilly rain. You slip across the yard to the tree with John’s tire swing, bounding up into the branches. Your claws leave tiny, pale gouges in the bark, but you don’t think the tree minds. You take care to keep distance between yourself and the nest (you’d received an awfully loud earful from the lusus-bird when you’d gotten too close, once, and you don’t want to repeat the experience). 

As you settle into place, the bird currently huddled inside of the nest glances over at you with one glassy black eye. It’s one of the funniest-looking birds you’ve seen before—it has a funny little crest on its head, and its feathers are bright blue with black and white banding, save for the ones on its breast, which are as pale gray as the thin clouds above you. It ruffles its feathers as it sees you, and you catch a glimpse of the speckled eggs beneath its wings. Unhatched, still. 

That’s okay. You can wait. For once, you have time.

You unhook your claws from the bark, beginning to edge your way back down the tree, when the wind shifts. A pair of self-scents (scorched sand and rotten fruit,  _ dangerdangerdanger)  _ slams into you like a wall and you flinch, edging your way  _ right back up  _ the tree before whipping around to look below you.

“Hey there, pretty little freak.” A pair of purple-eyed trolls stand at the base of the trunk, grinning up at you, and you—

Well, you freak the fuck out, naturally.

Your heart pounds painfully in your chest and you leap even higher into the tree, sending the blue bird flapping away from its nest. Your breath whistles between your teeth, your blood screaming, Your eyes burn. Shit. Shit shit shit shit. Those are Noir’s trolls, they  _ have  _ to be—but what the  _ fuck  _ are they doing here? How the fuck could they have found you this far away? You’d traveled thousands of miles, you’d crossed a country to find your freedom, you’d abandoned your clade, and it’s not—!

_ It’s not fucking fair.  _

You have to get to Gamzee before they do. 

“Aw, c’mon now, kitty-kitty-kitty,” one of the trolls coos up at you, and you hear the prickle of their claws against the bark. “There’s no need for that. You know we’re going to get you one way or another, so you might as well make it easy for all of us.”

“Of course, if you’d rather not,” the second troll adds, “we can always see if your palemate could convince you.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. Have they already found him? Have they already captured him? Oh, no, oh  _ no no no no— _

“Leave him alone,” you hiss, whirling back around and baring your teeth. A quick brush against the link tells you he’s still sleeping, though, thank god, thank  _ fucking god.  _ “What the fuck do you want from us? Just let us  _ go.  _ We’re not going to tell anyone about you or Noir—fuck, that would bring the police down on our own heads. We don’t want that, we just wanted to leave, so go the  _ fuck away—” _

“Now, then, maybe we could,” the first purpleblood admits. “But see, the two of you, you’re Noir’s favorites. I mean, your freak blood’s worth two hundred cagers a pop—pricy little bitch, you. And Makara’s too powerful to be left wandering loose—c’mon, even  _ you  _ know that. Cooperate and we’ll take care not to hurt you, hm?”

“And when we get back to the base?” you spit, pinning your ears. “What then? They take him from me again? They  _ hurt  _ him, they fucking— _ ruin  _ him— _ fuck you,  _ no.”

“Wiggler-boy, you’re in no position to be saying  _ no.  _ Say, though, if it makes you feel any better, we aren’t going to fuck with your palemate. Little shit’s too much trouble. We’ll leave him safe and sound here, if you come quietly.”

“Ha!” You grind your teeth, the branches creaking beneath your shoes. “You expect me to believe that load of bullshit? Yeah fucking  _ right.  _ Nuodel doesn’t want me half as much as she wants Gamzee.”

“True enough, but we don’t need to fight Makara when we could just take  _ you.  _ Noir’s convinced he’ll follow after, but hey, if he’s got any sense he’ll stay here, right? Stay safe? And all you have to do is come with  _ us,”  _ the first purpleblood says, stretching up the tree and dragging his claws through the bark.

You scramble higher, your breath coming in rapid bursts. They would leave Gamzee alone? Do you dare believe them? On one hand, that’s the kind of overconfident plan you expect from Nuodel (or Noir). On the other hand, is that a risk you want to take? What if they use you to force him into coming back to the base with you? That seems like a far more reasonable plan to you. 

Besides, even if you do go with them now and they  _ do  _ leave Gamzee alone, you know he’ll come after you. He has absolutely no sense whatsoever, and you’re—

Well, you’re the only stable thing he’s got in his life, besides the sopor. 

He’ll come after you. He’ll fling himself back into that hellhole for you, and you know it well, so what’s the  _ point?  _ (The point  _ is,  _ at least this way he won’t get hurt. He’s strong, but he’s not strong enough to defeat two adult subjugglators, young though they may be—but you know he’ll try, for you. By stabbing him in the back this way, at least you can keep him safe.)

(Some palemate you are.)

And maybe,  _ maybe,  _ if you’re lucky (you aren’t) the dad and John might help Gamzee. (They’ll kick him out. They’ll drive him away for bringing this danger to their hive, even though it was  _ never his fault.)  _ With their help, maybe he can—can figure out a way to break you out of the gang again, and this time you can go somewhere they’ll never, ever find you. You’ll cross seas, you’ll cross planets and galaxies and universes to build a hive where you’ll finally,  _ finally  _ be safe.

(Orphan wiggler dreams, again and again  _ and again.) _

You take a deep breath. Your legs shake. “You won’t hurt him? You won’t hurt Gamzee?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, wiggler,” the first highblood says, flashing a horribly white grin at you. He sinks his claws into the tree again, sharpens them against the bark in little grates of noise. “Now, then—why don’t you come down here, hm? It’s a long drive back.”

And then—

And then, somewhere nearby, a car door slams. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

The first purpleblood bares his teeth, his head whipping around. There, parked near the end of the driveway, sits the dad’s car—and strolling up the driveway, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his fists clenched at his sides, is the dad. His eyes burn dark and dangerous, and something awful and wiggler-small inside of you wants to cry in relief. He’s here, there’s a lusus here, he won’t let them hurt you—

But lusii die too.

(And besides, this isn’t your lusus—he’s just a human. Just a soft-hearted, foolishly kind human, and you’re going to see him die.)

“I’m going to have to ask you to step off of my property now,” the dad says, his voice quiet but firm as he stops in front of the highbloods. 

“Hark here,” the second purpleblood says, his voice a rolling mockery of a purr as he circles the dad. “The little human thinks to command  _ us?  _ This is—”

“Enough. Karkat.” The dad glances up at you and the highblood blinks, evidently baffled by the fact that his prey has seen fit to interrupt him. “Are you alright?”

You glance warily from the highbloods to the dad, but neither of them moves to attack him—yet. “Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat to get rid of the raw, terrified warble beneath your words. “Yeah, I’m—fine. You should go, you should—”

“Stay there, please,” the dad says, his eyes snapping away from you to focus on the highbloods again. “I’ll deal with this.”

Deal...with this…? What the  _ fuck  _ does that mean? He should be retreating, he should be going to protect John, he should be driving these fucks out of his territory; he shouldn’t just be  _ standing there  _ and speaking so calmly, as though these highbloods are nothing more than freshly-pupated wigglers. 

“There’s nothing to  _ deal with,”  _ the second highblood says, and by god, he even  _ sounds  _ like a freshly-pupated wiggler, annoyed and petulant. “Vantas doesn’t belong to you.”

“No, he doesn’t,” the dad agrees. “He doesn’t belong to anyone. However, he has come into my home, and he has put himself under my protection, and that makes him my responsibility. I don’t believe he wants anything to do with you, and so I’m going to ask you, once again, to step off of my property before I call the police.”

The highbloods bristle when he says that, and your own heart plummets. The police?  _ Fuck.  _ Fuck, you can’t deal with the police anymore than the highbloods can. You’re as illegal as they are; you’re only lucky the dad doesn’t know that. If the police can get the highbloods away from you, though—if you can grab Gamzee and run, if, if,  _ if— _

“Well, now,” the first highblood drawls, tipping his horns forward. “We can’t have that.”

You recognize the faint, malevolent hum in the air a split second before it slams into you—you recognize it well. You’ve spent weeks of time around that hum, that faint shimmer of shadows, that sick, crawling feeling beneath your skin: ‘voodoos. These aren’t as strong as Gamzee’s (even with his inhibitors, he always had the inhibitors, always, and he was still so  _ powerful  _ it terrified you), and your mental walls are thick and calloused after so long around Gamzee’s fear-leaking—but there are two of them, both adults, both half-trained subjugglators, and you don’t stand a chance.

The dad stands even less of one.

The world twists and warps around you—shadows twist in the edges of your vision, your skin chills and your heart tries to pulse out of your chest. Spiders crawl through your hair, snakes writhe in your stomach, blood coats your teeth. You gasp at the shock of it, the hum and pulse of their ‘voodoos combined battering against your mind, and your foot slips as you struggle to keep your balance. You catch yourself just in time, your claws sinking into the tree. 

Beneath you, through the haze of shadows (of monsters,  _ monsters,  _ there are monsters everywhere, this world is full of them and you’re going to  _ die)  _ you see the dad stiffen—see blood gush from his nose, see his eyes roll back and his body go limp. He’s just a human, he’s just (tiny unguarded defenseless) a bird against a hurricane. For a moment, your vision fractures, and you see—

You see your lusus, there on the ground. You see his broken white carapace, see his hot red blood and his flinty gray eyes. You smell him, spice and safety (and  _ fear-blood-pain,  _ you weren’t there, you weren’t  _ there).  _ Your heart twists so painfully you think it must be tearing apart inside of you, you think you must be bleeding out, and you gag on the sensation. You mouth tastes sour and afraid. 

You have watched one lusus die, and you will never recover from that.

You don’t—

You don’t want to do it again. You  _ can’t.  _ (You don’t want John to feel the way you always do, weak and powerless and so, so afraid.) You weren’t there last time. You didn’t save your lusus. You didn’t protect your palemate. Your hive and heart were ruined, and you didn’t lift a single claw to defend them. 

Like  _ hell  _ are you going to do it again.

“Leave him,” you snarl, your voice low and wavering, “the  _ fuck  _ alone!”

You lunge out of the tree, out of the reach of the branches—decaptchalogue your sickle and crash into the ground, bending your knees to transmit the brunt of the force through your bones. You were made to handle that and far, far worse. You’re a fucking  _ troll,  _ lowblooded or not, and it’s time to show those chucklefucks what that means.

They’re both too surprised to react for a moment—probably thought you were going to cower in fear while they killed the dad, huh? It’s about time you proved to  _ somebody  _ that you’re more than just a fucking coward. You seize their hesitation and leap at the first highblood, lashing out with your sickle. You catch him across the chest and he snarls, stumbling backwards just in time to keep your blade from sliding between his ribs. 

“You little  _ fuck—!”  _ He lashes out at you—his reach is longer than yours, even with your sickle, and his claw catches you across the bridge of your nose, splits your skin. You snarl and duck beneath his arm, slamming yourself into his chest and sending him reeling backwards again. As he catches his balance, you whip around and slam your elbow into his side, just beneath his ribs. He hisses, and you feel the ‘voodoos waver around you. 

Then the second highblood snags the back of your shirt and tears you away from the first, flinging you against the ground next to the dad. You spare a glance at him—he’s breathing, thank fuck—before scrambling back onto your feet. You place yourself between the dad’s limp body and the highbloods, your ears flat, rolling your jaw back to bare your teeth. You don’t stand half a chance against two adults, but you know what?

Right now, you don’t give a  _ goddamn fuck.  _

One of the highbloods springs at you and you meet him head-on, slashing your sickle at his sides. It’s enough to keep him darting backwards, maintaining a respectful distance between his soft parts and your wickedly-sharp blade. He doesn’t draw his own weapon, for whatever reason, and you’re not going to ignore the advantage that gives you. Once you’ve backed him away from the dad, you fall back, circling with him. Your growls rise and fall in tune, an ancient litany that makes your blood sing. It feels  _ right.  _ This is what you were designed to do, to fight and kill and  _ win.  _

And then there’s a weight on your back, slamming you to the ground. Claws prickle against your shoulder, and the second highblood’s breath is cold and rank against your ear. You thrash beneath him, struggling to get your sickle up and around so the blade can drive itself into his back—but he reaches out, knocks it from your hand and kicks it across the grass. 

“I think that’s  _ quite enough,”  _ he hisses, slamming the side of his head into yours. You have to pause for a moment, dazed, your sides heaving for breath under his weight. That’s not  _ fair,  _ it’s not fair, he should’ve faced you head-on,  _ as is fucking proper.  _ You snarl your outrage at him, slice at the ground with your claws as the first highblood approaches you, decaptchaloguing a rope. 

“Tie him and gag him,” he orders, tossing the rope to the second highblood. “Don’t draw anymore blood. Shit’s expensive.”

The second highblood growls an affirmative, and your wrists are yanked behind your back and tied there. The ropes chafe at your skin, bruisingly tight, you’re sure—but right now you can’t feel anything past the haze of fury in your mind. When the second highblood attempts to jam a scrap of filthy cloth in your mouth, you chomp down on his fingers and taste his blood. He jerks back, snarling.

“Hey,” the first highblood says from behind you, and you stiffen—that’s where the dad is, shit,  _ shit— _ “Tell the little bitch if he doesn’t cooperate, we’re gonna kill this dumbass human. I don’t think he wants that, hm?”

The second highblood slams your face into the dirt, snaps his teeth next to your ear. “You heard him, huh, Vantas? Best be behaving, now. Won’t be nothing to slice that bastard’s throat open.”

You know they’re right. The dad is painfully fragile—no carapace, no hide, no claws or fangs or horns. You relax your jaw, squeeze your eyes shut and let the highblood force the gag into your mouth. You retreat into your mind, behind your walls, where everything feels safer and softer—though you leave one ear open to listen, lest they hurt the dad while you aren’t paying attention.

The link curls softly against you as you near it, and you feel Gamzee stirring restlessly. His dreams are dark—tiny hunting dreams that must make his claws twitch and his teeth ache. He must have heard you fighting. You could call to him, and he would come. He would fight for you. He would lose, but he would try—you can’t risk your palemate that way, though.

You betray him instead. (Again. Again and again and again.)

You tuck yourself around the link, make yourself calm and quiet.  _ Shhh,  _ you murmur to him.  _ Shh, it’s alright. Keep resting. I’m here—I’m here, settle down, shhh… _

(Your name is Gamzee Makara, and you dream of curling up around your palemate—curling up and never, ever letting him go. You dream he loves you enough to trust you.)

“What are we gonna do about this?” the first highblood asks, and you claw your way back out of your mind in time to see him loom over the dad. “Can’t just leave him here. That’d draw the police, sure as anything.”

“Could kill him and hide the body,” the second highblood offers, and you snarl and writhe beneath him, scrambling to get your feet beneath you despite his weight on your back. He cuffs you across the horns and you falter, your head ringing. “What? You don’t like that idea?”

“We could keep him—provided Vantas wants to cooperate, that is,” the first highblood says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “Make good leverage.”

“Is that right? Would it make good leverage? You gonna fuckin’  _ listen  _ if we got that human with us?” the second highblood asks, tapping your temple. “Well, sure as fuck can’t hurt. Noir can do whatever the fuck he wants with him once we get back, anyway. No skin off our backs, brother.”

The second highblood stands, grabs the skin at the nape of your neck and hauls you upright. You stagger on your feet, pulling viciously against the ropes that hold your hands still, and he shoves you in the direction of a sleek black car. You can see the first highblood scooping the dad up, out of the corner of your eye, and you snarl against the gag. You don’t want them to take him! He belongs here, with John, with his charge (his child, his  _ son).  _ Why can’t they just leave him alone? Why can’t they just  _ let things go right for once? _

The highblood shoves you into the backseat of the car, then loads the dad in next to you. He’s still unconscious, blood crusting around his nostrils and his lips. There’s a gag in his mouth, much like yours, and his wrists are bound tight with rope. The highblood slams the door shut behind you, and you hear him say something about moving roadblocks before he ambles away from the car. The first highblood climbs into the driver’s seat, winking back at you. 

“Better get settled in, Vantas. It’s a bit of a drive—but you’ll have a  _ good  _ time once we get home, don’t you worry.”

Somehow, you worry anyway. 


End file.
